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
Sep 1, 2024
Sep 1, 2024 at 10:58 AM UTC
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
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