We are the 99%

We are the 99%.

The beat down, the hopeless, the pointless, the useless.

Robbed of the dream, denied success.

The poor, the disenfranchised, society's mules.

Robotically working, mindlessly living.

Lacking vision, denied salvation by the gods.

Reduced to pretense;

“Let’s pretend we can still be anything we want to be”

“Let’s pretend our lives are following a divine plan”

“Let’s pretend hope, and love, and opportunity exist”

Unable and unwilling to face reality.

Displeased with what is, hoping to achieve what will never again be.

We are the 99%.

The disillusioned, the angry, the impotent.

We buy homes we can’t afford.

We carry guns we know we’ll never use.

We rage online, in words.

Yet we meekly go about our lives.

Our misery makes us weak.

The future is dark and mysterious.

We buy our lottery tickets, we drink our cheap whiskey.

We die still dreaming of being among the 1%.

The fog

He stood and watched the fog approach
silently, with a natural stealth
it rolled toward him, and he stood and waited.

He reached out his hand,

touched the first wisps of vapor,
felt it on his fingertips,
cold, and wet, and empty.

Like his hopes, his life, his dreams.

There was no light, no sound,
there was the man, and the fog.

It caressed his cheek 
like his mother once had.
It damped his eyelids,
his cheek, his forehead.

It chilled him to the bone,
the touch of death, of nothingness.

It chilled him to his soul,
a dark place filled with memories and regrets.

The fog totally enveloped the man,
it was all he could feel and touch and smell.
And he welcomed it.

Within minutes the fog was gone
and with it, the man.