Sunday, Sunday, Sunday
Good Morning Starshine
Gaze
your grand purpose meets
my eyes, and then turns to dust.
now, what was the point?
Journey
the map is a lie.
my boots know the truest path:
toward the heart of pain.
Notebook
coffee rings and ash,
the tear gas residue clings.
this truth has a stain.
System
the gears grind on bone.
we are fuel for the machine
that promises scraps.
Barricade
plywood, street signs, hope.
a fragile line in the sand.
the sirens draw near.
Home
a box made of walls.
an idea holds you too tight.
the wind is my roof.
Empathy
behind the hate-filled
eyes, a small and frightened child
screams into the void.
Land
the ghosts of this place
whisper through the parking lots.
we built on their bones.
Objectivity
a view from nowhere,
the biggest lie they sold you.
i stand in the rain.
Nuance
the hero is flawed.
the monster weeps in the dark.
nothing is just one thing.
Crisis
a pull on the soul,
a psychic hum of despair.
i arrive on time.
Struggle
it has no ending.
the beautiful, absurd fight.
push the rock again.
Fury
a quiet, clean rage
for the ones ground into dust.
it makes my hands steady.
©️2025 Existential Nomad n.d.p. ™️