the grinders
rip through
and away
his
thoughts.
pining for ten
minutes
of rest
from relentless
fears of
forgetting
something,
anything,
everything.

its easy,
he can lose
himself
in coffee
stains,
the fractured
lights of all
the dead
stars and
the melancholy
realization that
perfection is
nowhere,
nothing.

fleeting
like time,
the sirens
wailing, the
horns blowing.
its totality
fading.
the grinders
start once
more but
they never
really
stopped.
now did they?

he's searching
burnt out
burned down
memories
for courage,
he's looking
all wrong.