Asleep they slither through these streets
as sheep they seem to sleep when their sneaky
snaking threat retreats.

Useless in a way, like ants yet not per se.
Souls have fled the circular pattern, almost
all of them need glasses, to see, to grow blind.
It's a miracle how one does not lose his mind.

It's a hunt, a search, adventure for the lonely,
routine to bands of others. For treasure not a single
one will find if not a change occurs.

My chair is comfort, a zone I will not leave today,
tonight, I may.