When The Rats Stop Talking, The Walls Eat Themselves

With enough time in the bag
It’s easy enough to forget ones depth

Wherein Youth disquieting Mountains are easily traversed
Or at least ostensibly
Age lends its devices to analysis
In this quiet dream
Self slowly erodes
Giving way to the: self as other

Insofar that the identity we relate as “I”
Becomes the myriad of faces
Beyond our sleepy souls

each day our flesh fails infinitely

To free our broken organs
from the cage god’s slaves have created
Maybe the sedentary frequency
and the leering towers of industry
Blur our vision from accurately percolating the madness

Maybe as age cascades over us
We have less to prove

For my money
It’s all for her

Every last fucking enervated breath