His Circadian Rhythm

Your eyes shift overhead as the clouds melt away,

And sundrops dissipate, tearing slivers of grey,

In the fabric of your heart, a quilt that your mother made,

A thin checkered veil she'd smothered you with in the second grade.


In your throat, a slick elixir of gin and tonic water,

Thinking back to when your troubles were as small as your embryonic daughter,

When you'd stomp around the forest,

Self-proclaimed king, free from this tourist- trap,

Oh if you could only go back to that.



Now you're trying to catch fish with butterfly nets,

And you, in turn, swim away in your pool of past regrets,

Craving money, craving power, wanting more just like it's Ovaltine,

Addiction and confliction, oh it must be laced with dopamine.

You're like your jacket, torn apart, kept together by the hems,

Did you hear about the man who heard their screams but didn't save them? Oh.


Oh, what a world we'd find if we lifted up our sheets and opened the blinds,

Finally step out to the side of this facade we hide behind,

Feeling the serrated edge of the daily grind.

It cuts deep in the vein of the man in vain, Inducing the insanity of those sworn to be sane.

They follow, and they wallow in and swallow the pain,

Like the capsules they consume for their life's migraine.

The follicles of hair paint a gradient grey,

Above a graven forehead that couldn't help but give way,

To etching lines carved by the butcher called age.

You're the actor, oh and this plastic world is your stage.



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