His chest moves
upwards then inwards
as a man
would wave
from left to right,

when every breath he borrows
from the atmosphere
is returned
back to where
it once came from.

His mind presents itself
as a knot
to untie
rather than a melody
to twirl to,

And perhaps, this is why
he snores asleep.
Every ten minutes : A Thunder
striking for a second
or two.

He resembles a glass of water
in which the liquid seems clear
though present,
eventually evaporating
as the tasks
he ticks of the lists
every time
his eyes wake

from the dilemma
of justice
in a city
degrading
the artists and the painters,
the poets and the dreamers,
the physicists and the biologists,

whilst praising
corporations handing titles to
women as
inert particles
flying off a boiling ***,
and men,
as the controllers
in a virtual video game,

He wasn't dreaming.