the absence of good mannerisms.

following your path through the glowing green forest;
the aliens are coming.

everyone is counting their own steps, turning in cardinal directions. i'm spitting out all my will and ideals- replacing it with
smoke. smoke. smoke.
i feel as if i'm kneeling at every doorstep, imploring anyone willing to allow me inside.
keeping all those promises never made anyone feel better; don't forget though.