Fare Hike

Skipping Thunder Swerving Weaving.
Faces that drip into another,
Smeared reflections of empty god-like vessels.
Monotony has usurped:
Pan the car of sagging circles

the lineage

of green-black circles.

Click Click.

Feverish communication,

As seamless as emotionless.

Type Type Type.

Slaves to the future,
Bound free forever
Of the past,

They hope.

What about now?
What about now?!

The ones that don’t know bear no scars,
No scuffs,
No marks at all.

They are perfect.

Perfectly dead.