Another day of work done under a setting sun.
Empty walls stretch longer in streaks of burnt light,
Reflected by the dense snow globe on my desk;
Why did I bury my soul in an office graveyard?
As a kid, I found freedom in fine details, in feelings,
Shaking the glass sphere to see flakes flurry for fun.
As a young man, I sacrificed all bodily sensations;
Spirit possessing this void machine to make a living:
Circuit board bones and cold electric blood,
Dust bunnies collecting like fat in clogged arteries,
High-pitch whines ringing separate tones of silence,
Silicon nerves that bend light but feel no warmth.
The snow globe slips from hollow hands, and cracks open,
Leaking lost childhood memories onto the floor.
I stare as I sip stagnant black coffee mug residue,
Then blankly pour it out over shards of the shattered world.
I am lost for words already spent on empty labor:
A lonely deathstyle is perfect for utter spiritual depravity.
Perhaps, tonight, I’ll escape to dreams in moonlight,
And hope that sunrise brings more than ghostly endeavors.
