Hallways

Could it be

we're trapped

in the mechanics of time?

That a day wasted

is a life lost

and a panicked rhyme

is preferred over

well-thought out

(silence)?



Sometimes

my eyelids never close

to record

the blank stare

of a purposeless world,

as I look back

into the air

forever there,

and when I'm gone

does it blow on?

Should I go on

without a song

to hum along?

I've come a long way

from myself.



I swear

we're living for the better

til we realize

where it is

we're glued together

abritrarily.

Then scarily, we come apart

like tetherballs

to merely wrap

where we would start.



As art uncoils

and recurls

so that one day

we're poets playing,

and the next

we can't tell

what the hell we're saying.

Straying into mazes

of existence.

The complexity

of praying

for a window,

for a view out

of myself,

and all these strange

hallways...



...where I'm composed

of several closed

recurring rhymes

that every now and then

unfold

into each other

for the millionth time...

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