Well hidden behind the portals
Of passionless and watery eyes
The incessant carousel of an insomnious
Three-legged waltz is revealed with
Childlike vision; hypnotically in
Syncopation with the murmur
Of the inviolate ticking clock.
In this surface-like existence, well
Beyond resistance and emotion,
Every attempt to break through is
As futile as punching a pillow
Or screaming in a dream.
And in the absence of promise we
Eventually find solace in our perpetual
State of existentialism and blues –
And pretend not to recognize the
Everpresent and bittersweet
Scent of lemons exuding from
Each and every passerby.