Complacency Poem by Gus Schreiber

All is of motion
except me
All is of motion
from the flux of seasons
to the parade of generations,
speices,
harvest,
life and death,
but I sit desperately still
in a crumbling room.
I screamed coming in,
will moan going out,
and have complained
the whole way through,
dragging my heels
as an unseen father
has pulled my tiny hand
through the crowd of a strip mall.
The voices in my head
see this and rage,
tearing screams
against the walls of my skull.
They are ants
scurrying to and fro
and a spider sits within me
perfectly motionless on his web,
grinning.