Does today have a label?
A designation selecting it out from any other day?
How does today,
This day,
Differ from any other?
Obviously not the same
Yet, it seems like just another piece of hell
Infusing itself into existence.
Doesn’t begin.
Doesn’t end.
Just another day.
Foggy, cold, empty, gray
Like my pain,
Medicated and Polluted
with poison smog-thoughts
Cyanide tetrachloride images
Twist their bizarre sneering faces.
Racing in fast-forward,
Everchanging clouds of human misery.
Compassionless, tortured souls
Caught there,
continually escaping
By channeling themselves
Into dimensions
Beyond the realms of time.
Only to reappear again
More grotesque
And pathetically devoid
Of being worth salvaging.
The cat, in heat, yeowls,
and growls again.
Does she see them, too?
Elizabeth Munroz
March 1991
Photos by E.M.
