Mundanity, what a story to sell
reflecting off black mirrors, shallow stories to tell
amidst the living rooms, amidst the park benches
all the same sullen faces, stuck in the same dredge.
I've seen faces merely pass on through
not a word for thought, just a something to do.
And it's a saddening scene to unfold
even sadder as a story untold;
"Line up kids for a nickel, for a buck
a white paper, a white dress, a white fence, who gives a ****"
but I've seen faces in the red and blue delirium,
succumb to the sold requiem.
There must be more,
alas I'm immersed in the same mundanity as before,
the same as the faces, dragging home at the 5
and the same as the faces, at the same local dive.
Or perhaps I'm among the ones looking for knives,
or the derelict ones with the hungry wives.
And I cannot help but wonder if that's all that we get,
am I wasting my life to wait for the not quite best yet?
Because I've seen faces that I suppose are still on a line,
for a dismal sublime and it's all madly asinine