In Manic Times Poem by DM W

O in manic times, we do not reflect.
But scatter our seeds under the sun.
We desperately search for connections;
To transcend the brokeneness of this world.
O we reject empty rituals that
No longer provide meaning. We search
For lost treasures, while we move in circles.

Land fills are crammed with disillusioned hearts.
The manic birds in anxious flight shatter
Modern windscreens. The matador suffers
And yet finds pleasure in a ring of blood.
The nomads trace their tracks in the desert.
Urban commuters closely guard their dreams;
As they try to survive these bankrupt times.