I'm depleted on the effect of excursions
that free me from the bondages of what
clings to my thoughts. Like fly paper full
of efforts, to escape the scent that I linger
on, never to escape that awaking frailty.

Concussed on the fusion of time lingering
on my efforts to be woeful of what I must
function on. I stagger on the motions of
my birth, into reproductions of what I was
motioned into, an echo of repetitive actions.

I'm losing my reality to a ceaseless apparitions
that follow the conceding days. Hanging up
my reflection, I don't conceive that moments
have past. A paradox of eulogies. Every 120
versions I linger on freedoms charade.

Hostages in a room of freedom, ill-conceived
that we earned this occasion. When we were
always free, but kept in maze of needing.
We are the donkey, and life is a carrot that is
diluted on our conciseness, the carrot is rotten.