Havoc, chapter 4

Mid afternoon and the beads of a persistent sweat gather
And shine in tiny colonies near my hairline.

Charred by fire, frozen in ice,
I am alone with the electronic hum of
21st century depression.

Raging fire and relentless glaciers
Have exhausted themselves
For the time being
And the real me stumbles,
Like a 3 a.m. drunk,
Weaving toward home and bed with
Heavy feet and thick tongue.

I'm in a mind fog
And even the pen moving over the paper is
A disconnected,
Surreal moment,
Both real and imagined.

Havoc leaves waste in its wake.
Empty fields and blasted minds too
Scarred to return to former lives.