The clouds above roll like waves

On a fathomless sea.

In the outwardly Zen stoicism of the suburbs,

Where human potential goes to die,

People lose their minds behind closed doors

As they watch the barrage of news reports and negativity,

A psychedelic torrent of Technicolor nightmare.

They numb themselves with pills or drink

Or else get lost in a marijuana haze.

The light from their windows spills onto the street

So that I, curious, catch brief glimpses

Into their lives.

Cinéma vérité on a small but epic scale.

© Chester Sakamoto