The slow, despairing dirge of duty
propels me along on this
blazing, Sunday morning.
Shambling about for a cause,
while eye lids become anvils
and heart resembles a broken hearth.
The minutes countdown before the shift,
yet no nervous energy arises
in anticipation of truancy.
All that recognizably remains is
the monotony of muscle memory—
of routines automated
to the cyclical, auto da fe
to the cyclical, auto da fe
of my minute galaxy.
I listen to a song on repeat
for a clarity that refuses to arrive.
I gaze avariciously at the liberated
footsteps of the seemingly unencumbered world—
only to see the hidden shackles
outlined beneath their garments.
Is it momentary
solidarity that temporarily buoys,
Or the clock
signifying commencement?