What is the world to me,
But a mistaken symphony?
A platform for the feelings I wish I had never felt,
The antagonist for a hatred that is a victim of itself.
Sunday afternoon, the rush still fakes a purpose –
Silver and gold circles to people without a voice.
Itchy, navy v-neck sweater sighs, after a long seat on his pancake ass,
And I sigh with the futility of it as I’m in an empty home at last.