in the hustle of minutes
cracking underneath the dome of blue-black pressure,

it is in some strange way undiscovered
that our bodies decree the foolishness of hours.

triggered to a stirring, these thrills that seek flounce,
a **** stretch of linear roads that connect to nothing.

the daily commute sings elegiac, pressed against
signs foretelling of destinations that still themselves

know not of a trap of steel when our lives
start to bind madly against us, a rebel.

overtaking us, our lives, in speeds all ruthless
and forceful, like an instantaneous drag of something that persists

to writhe out and refuse to be pinned down.
a roomful of hollow yet nobody to notice equally,

this given purpose, or a deeply stabbing fabulation.
our able bodies give way no longer and break,

reduced to threadbare, this senseless act of worship.
of wasting away hours and mourn the passing of twilights.

we can no longer choose – we catapult into the pith
of these contestations and resign longer than imagined,

our ways are discourses, our life so suddenly
insecure of our remorseless entrails, oh how we have starved

ourselves for long and heed like stone,
the suddenness of our aches when our souls

cease to believe, when our hearts refuse to unfurl
a love christened with silence, when our hands

insurmountable with the mountains deadened
by a plenitude of echoes reaching for a still image -

ourselves, dragged buoyantly and airless –
wearing a face of torment we cannot voice out.