Brushing past the day,
Bodies skim along a
Surface of existence,
Isolated, floating,
Like flies above a pond,

Empty clothes,
Lived in by capsules,
Bursting with character,
Devoid of anything but,
Wrens on the edge.

Their feet spin, roll,
Crash along virtual stone,
Material closed around them,
Curtains drawn too early,
Light begging to be freed.