The human condition of slander and sin,
You there, with the maggots in your hair,
Ride this train often?

No one speaks, though they whisper words.
Audible utterances of irrevocable critiques with their mind’s eye.
Peering blindly to see,
The human condition,

You there, with the maggots on your skin,
Parasitical flesh devouring serpents of the mind raise you to more belligerences,
Pissing on subway cars with your little maggot minions:
To keep others away.
The white collar, paper waving, novel nosed p***** of the platforms.
Eyes wide, mind shut.

The human condition,
It dwindles with every prolific pompous presentation of the ill- born,
Soon to be forgotten
Faces.
Facades.

You there, with the maggots, the corpses only friends,

Do you pity yourself?
Longing for the robust recreation of a luxury lounge, drinks on the house’s penitent souls?
Or do you look upon these mindless beings through your glazed over, mummified eyes of opulent wisdom and spit?

The human condition,
Barren as the rose bush,
Thorns just as sharp.
They prick. They point,
Overworked, hurting fingers at all.
Shame.
You are forsaken.
Shame for being a being of breath.
Shame for the condition imposed on our brethren, our blood.

Maggots.
They infiltrate the mind,
Living to dead, but yet, once more over,
Trying and fighting to protect and decompose
The human condition.