“Theatre”

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“My Tired”

“My Tired”

My tired stretches outward, and underwhelms.

Staunch narcoleptics, snoring pots and pans to beat the band.

Slumber robs youth of steady confidence.

Methodical metronome,

cadence of an old age home,

waiting to retire.

Sweaty yellow pillowcases carry the weight of the world.

Quiet, tenderest of moments, forgotten when memories are remembered.

Life, per seek, per chance, a dream of waking sleep.

Lost, recovered? Abruptly.

Dream-weaving steampunk.

Eyelids sealed, a treasure trunk.

Deep oscillating breath,

skirts the breadth of death.

“Fugue State”

“Fugue State”

All of a sudden,

somehow,

detachment is necessary for survival.

Topsy-Turvy,

sailor’s scurvy.

There’s no one in the crow’s nest.

Uncharted course approaching,

at breakneck speed.

Seasick,

Netflix and spill,

your guts over the Starbucks side.

Waves are swelling.

But, if you focus on the horizon,

a tidal wave is building,

Momentum gathering at a point.

When will it get here?

Waiting on the coastline for a Tsunami is tremendously boring.

A great scourging purge will claim the abomination we dreamt,

and teach us new universal truths.

Wandering, faces aglow.

The aroma of Huxley’s soma,

drawing us further into ourselves,

without hope of surfacing for air.

It was tech’s JOBS, to imprison us behind the GATES.

Barbarians are we, gates or not.