Land of the Broken

A man of no country and no home, life is spent on the road, searching for the lost among the lost, keeping an eye out for the crowd whose cheers only echo in my mind, in the collective insanity.


The provocations in my mind remind me of days when I wanted to walk out of life, out of the madness. Maybe it is time to reconcile with my demons and make love to the insanity in my bed.

My life is a ranch of feral animals, where rats and snakes run wild and untamed, where weeds grow long and uncultivated. These lonely roads are for those of us who lost the war to life and to death.

Mine is a hill of broken dreams and broken promises, of hunger and thirst, a loveless path littered with bones from the days when I could afford memories.

A desert mirage

Today, I dream of ropes and nooses, of days long by, of gallows, of the hangman, dreams of anger, with the rainbows in my aura turning to dust. In this land of the broken where I forage, there is no room for glee, no room for hope.

The land of the broken is no place for those dreaming, but for those who are seeking after a road that has no end, after a stop that will never come, running from mirage to mirage from loss to loss, always seeking the next high.

In our veins we are spurred on by nightmares of the days gone past of the unwanted memories that we inject ourselves with to truly remember the days of dust when evil lusted after our souls.

We sought to conquer, but we were the ones conquered. We sought to dominate, but we were the ones who were pinned under. There is no more consolation for our sorrows.

We comfort each other in the lonely rivers flowing to the sea, reminding us of where we once belonged. Outside our fate, life goes on unperturbed. There is no room for worry or fear.

We are locked in eternal anger, seeking to restart a fire long declared sterile. We belong to the lonely roads, to the lonely hills, to the lonely places. The vultures fly low waiting for us to drop dead, waiting to glean from our hollow bones.

Vultures perched on a tree

Our humanity long left us and so we run around like forsaken demons, seeking to torment ourselves, walking with shoes filled with nails. We never get what we want, and we never get what we need.

Ours is a battle we fight to lose, the fate of jumping on swords over and over again, only for it to seep through our bodies of ash.