I wonder how my mother felt, when she found out we lived in Hell; invisible until we saw the true plan devised.

All coming together when the time raised.

I wonder how I felt, on this walk of impervious clouds of nine. 

On nine, the syndrome of high.

The kind of man-made, naturally crafted fuel.

Chemical mix of hate and anger, brewing with no drug, yet it possessed me from my rehab.

Awaking a sleeping lion; a resting bull; an ancient slumber of modern proportions. 

And so on.

Not the mix of the addictive whisp of smoke or dust the gets abused. Much less than the abused 

who are treated the way they are because of it.

Nor the kind that lingers for hours, whiles, or forevers if held long enough.

Not of the one that makes jokesters into jesters, or fools into walking ones.

Not even of those who assist people to drown even more into a molasses of self-hatred 

and tar by selling weights in an exchange.

Exchange for time lost to nothingness; an exchange for a soul.

It is but the one of oppressed and well-timed released of potent, bitter, nasty, animalistic rage and aggression.

Stopped short from the execution of human nature.

I wonder how X feels. Or Y. Even Z.

Using the same crap we use to poison the world.

The shit we use to kill rodents, people, and people who think they are better than others who have live like rodents.

Not out of choice, of course.

The type of shit we use to power cars, jets, space shuttles.

The type of shit that we paint our homes with.

The type of shit we use for people who lose a part of them.

Arm, leg, head.

Heart too, the non-physical, sadly. 

I wonder how my grandfather feels; bless his soul.

Knowing the incurable and having a spot on the "death wish" list is survivable.

That the thing everyone calls a disease is the body attacking itself involuntarily.

How hard it must be for him to breath.

I wonder how my truest friend feels; all the time, I do.

About only knowing the surface, putting aside the rest unintentionally.

How much of their trust in me isn't affected?

Having no idea that love in the most unexpected people has greater power of matter

in the world anyone could know of. 

Only for it to slowly die off for the sake of simple understanding and comprehension 

of the endgame of what, in a distant timeline, is meant to happen.

So it lingers around like an unused light bulb , waiting to be socketed into a line of 

power and light, as it was always there until it was time for it to shine.

I wonder how the ghosts of the pasts feel.

People who are gone; dead or just left our lives.

Do they remember anything about us at all?

Those who took a different route and were never seen again.

Will they see again?

Or will their eyes be covered by the futuristic worlds that they now know?

Never to see what they left behind without reason.

I wonder how any of us will be; how I'll be.

Will I be who I want to be?

Need to be?

Hate to be?

Love to be?

Afraid to be?

Proud to be?

Ashamed to be?

Will I be who I know they want me to be?

Or will I do the opposite; better or worse?