incremental
these
clock hands
sluggishly
slide by
pushing past hours
indifferent
and apathetic
of the ozone
featherlight
and crushing the air
from our lungs
curling through
crooked digit
daily.struggle
cramped
and arthritic
straighten out
those gnarled joints
(it's like gifting the blind with sight, but with less realism involved)

we breath in
sliver shot
silver sunrise
melodies
defeaning
like the antique silences
littering the corridor

I
am no one

nothing
but
broken
thoughts
clinging to broken magnetics
rearranging
sympathies
and daydreams
because

silly
love

us dreamers,
(we do it best.)

our art
shields us
always
illustrating
something better
than
the realities

that truly
show
us

how broken
we really are