The Damage Done

Roots and Tree Trunks, Auvers 1890 - Vincent Van Gogh



you've seen me dance here alone before
is it tough to watch
friday after friday?
--xiu xiu

The day started out quite lovely, but inevitably it turned as dark as the buildings on a horizon blackened by the shade of the setting sun. Anger is generational, passed down to impressionable children by crying mothers and fathers. The cycle repeats itself, like a fan blowing hot air on the naked backs of the naive. Pushing an endless supply of hurt all over the place, ugly, and pathetic. You can trace rot all the way to the root of a dying tree, and despite the urge to pick up an axe and chop it down, it will live on forever. Surviving as a stump if it has to, unwilling to give up its place in the ground. You need a bulldozer to do away with it, but who can afford that?

Tonight my knuckles are white at the edges. The sun sets on a sad day, and history repeats itself, over, and over again.