Many Worlds [Free Verse]

Fictional cities pile upon each other,

spreading like blood puddles 
until they spill into yet others
at their amorphous edges.

And distinction is lost --
homogeneity wins --

but that lysergic sadness remains.

Westward Run [Free Verse]

Put the sun at your back
run headlong toward the darkness.

Killing days at record speed,
leaning into the terminus,

and you wake up in the light
prepare for another westward run.