Over Time

11 June 2018 · Karl Finch · Permalink

[The image for this post, except it's missing.]

This raucous din,
this sizzling drone
has worn me down
(before my time)
to splintered bone
and the gristle
that makes up hope and will.

No night’s long enough
for the rest I need.
Sleep is masquerade,
irony, our punchline.

Turn off every light!
Turn off every light,
the imprisoning
glares, piercing red eyes
boring into a cracked skull.

After the last song’s played,
I’ll beat in the pulsating magnets
in all those speakers shrieking,
sheer noise,
sheer noise until,
like on hilltops
as the wind stops,
a lungless gasp:
still air.