No rhyme, no beat
Just a cloud of disarray
I lay here in defeat,
deaf to all things each mouth says

High, low pitches;
melted into one single tune
The muscles prone to fickle flinches
waiting for the watchman’s beat by noon

Stuck all in its monotony
it’s chamber loop, its labyrinth
I cry at all things dead possibility
hoping for release as dead ends tear all I believe in