my eyes ache at the end of a day
and i find myself counting hours –
hours slept, hours awake, but
no memory of the expanse remains,
other than the hours, and hours, and days.
and i smoke another cigarette, smoke
another cigarette, and my eyes
glaze over with a seven-yard stare.
i can see onward for days,
i have been outward for days,
and yet hours, the hours, the days
resemble piecemeal beige walls that
echo my arguments back upon me.
and they close in – but not in that crazy way –
as the carpet buckles under enclosing movement,
and a door’s been left open leading
out to the consumption of souls.
or so the walls have foretold.