As
I was channel surfing,
I realized
There wasn’t anything on,
Except a bunch of
boring
Documentaries
about drills
There’s solace in the mark of sound
And a fade is sure to follow
Brittle’s become the charm of
man
Breaking before the break
began
Grey,
the darkening of alabaster walls
White, the abused metaphor of purity
Red, stands for life yet also
death,
But it is dark and I
cannot see
The
pronation
Of
my own hands
Gates, doors
Turning keys
The locks adjust
Tourniquet
Portcullises
of the past reset
