It's true -
There is no rest
For the wicked

For the wicked
Have no need for
Feigning sympathy

A waste of precious time
A spoil of the hands of the clock
A tossed second
In a slew of disregarded minutes

There is no rest for the wicked
For they understand
Beseeched by the cold hand
Of their own mortality

There is no time.
There is no possession,
No foothold,
No sure fire -

No rest.

As the dust settles,
A new gale stirs.
We are addicted
To the perpetual motion

Of conflict.

We yearned to be tested,
Yet balk, debate, and resolve,
Like hamsters on a wheel,
If only to prove to ourselves

Of our progress.

Progress. Fortune. Advancement.

Tiers of disillusionment
Embedded with dissatisfaction
Complicit in a lovers
Lack of vocabulary
In regards

To their dissatisfaction.

Up and
Down

We go,

Like a balloon let go
From the indifferent hand
Of a child whose offered

An ice cream cone.

Why blame them?

Rubber has never been better

Than cream.