Ominous

Like a scene from the apocalypse
Above the trees and little strips
Of outlets where the lost are led
The morning sun is dark and red

It festers in a toxic sky
Resembling a battered eye
With puffy purple clouds that look
Like bruises from a donnybrook

While in the valley where I vent
The mists maliciously prevent
That sun from helping me keep warm
As I await the coming storm.

The Pariah Theorem

If I told you I felt fractionalized
Would you ask me what was my point
Or would you call me divisive
And put me in my place?

The quotient of dismissal
Can never quite subtract
From any person’s value
And that’s a stone-cold fact.