trading thumbs for ammunition; kire [blitz]
Oct 8, 2015 21:47:07 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Oct 8, 2015 21:47:07 GMT -5
cody bowers-fox
Wasted seconds spent with my feet planted to the cold linoleum floor— there is no gain watching others waste away.
Yet there seems to be little else to do if there was no interest in involvement, for I had already worn the floors out with my aimless pacing and wandering mind. There was no give in these walls, no bend of opinion for those who would not find conformity in its space— the system does not change its mechanisms for the parts.
And yet caught between the gears I find no place of rest here, tired mind and a beating heart only second nature in a body that does not know the appropriate time for termination.
Instead I am left to find promise in the premise of another second more, to find comfort in the consolation that the time spent here can only linger for days past, because then we will be turned to the time of a different tone.
I look forward to that in the same manner that I look forward to Duncan Bowers-Fox placing the final nail in my coffin.
Hope lost in the current of the cynical I take time to pause and watch those around me shuffle past, caught somewhere between interest and a lack of the same. Genuine interest was sparked in the minds of a couple, gaze intent on the space they occupied and nothing more. Others seemed to have a dwindling fuse of focus, burning down until the only thing that remained were smoldering ashes and some sense of security.
Lost in thought skimmed silence gives way to a pair of eyes focused upon my own presence— the only thing to see was impatience paced by narcissism. Sauntering over with thumbs still caught in pockets I bring myself to stand too close for casual comfort, “If you want to see it, all you have to do is ask.”
Yet there seems to be little else to do if there was no interest in involvement, for I had already worn the floors out with my aimless pacing and wandering mind. There was no give in these walls, no bend of opinion for those who would not find conformity in its space— the system does not change its mechanisms for the parts.
And yet caught between the gears I find no place of rest here, tired mind and a beating heart only second nature in a body that does not know the appropriate time for termination.
Instead I am left to find promise in the premise of another second more, to find comfort in the consolation that the time spent here can only linger for days past, because then we will be turned to the time of a different tone.
I look forward to that in the same manner that I look forward to Duncan Bowers-Fox placing the final nail in my coffin.
Hope lost in the current of the cynical I take time to pause and watch those around me shuffle past, caught somewhere between interest and a lack of the same. Genuine interest was sparked in the minds of a couple, gaze intent on the space they occupied and nothing more. Others seemed to have a dwindling fuse of focus, burning down until the only thing that remained were smoldering ashes and some sense of security.
Lost in thought skimmed silence gives way to a pair of eyes focused upon my own presence— the only thing to see was impatience paced by narcissism. Sauntering over with thumbs still caught in pockets I bring myself to stand too close for casual comfort, “If you want to see it, all you have to do is ask.”
