Of Sallow Pallor

Trust is an oak tree with shallow roots. so very treacherous in windy weather. I feel as though I'm glued to the floor; pinned like a moth to an insect display. I wish to leave this horrible evil place, run far away into the cold, dark night. In the flickering shadows of mankind sympathetic words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul; healing to the heart. Dreams rise and fall like lunar tides; engrossing thoughts flood the brain; as blood through old varicose veins. Flotsam strewn about dying fields as jetsam falls from darker, foggy skies. Face rises to the sun, a sallow pallor. Vultures perched, perversely hawing; a flag is folded in presentation style; roses tossed onto a shiny new casket. The eve of one's quietus has arrived.