…

1.

Life hobbles on,

in this realm of lonesome pairs,
solitary couples,
terminal unions,

desolate hearts,
heaving wallets,
empty consciences.

2.

I make my way,

in this citadel of rehearsed apathy,
quiet acceptance,
mute acquiescence,

slowly disappearing,
gently rotting,
silently drowning.

3.

It remains the same,

in this wasteland of opulent excess,
stinking banquets,
manufactured happiness,

fake smiles,
polythene desires,
anaesthetised souls.

4.

I reach within,

my lobotomised self,
cocooned in fleeting comfort,
dumbed down by numbing routine,

to escape,
to flee,
to run,

while,
flailing helplessly around,

as I remain,

shackled,
imprisoned,
interred,

beneath this barren ground

…