Welcomed into the deadzone of meaningless averted eyes,
Nothing but uncomfortable seats,
And an ease to breathe in all the toxins you want,

Tongue-tied for interests,
Nothing to share,
So we stare at our hands,
And I notice something in mine,

They're growing and,
The honesty of work is dying them grey,
And where once I thought of them wasting away,

I find pride in my replacability,
The hollowness of my labour,
I'm glad for these things because they highlight the pen,
Which ink stained my hands as I wrestled with it,
In an eternal battle I have with myself,

So i'm glad to be fleeting,
A relief to myself