Plotless Future

Struck by the dazzling silent calamity,
Those fragile frames shudder with glee;
Those hollowed contours compliment the frames
As they structure the perfect geometric lines.
Some yellow colours empty paper-white patches
Here and there.

From hearty auras to empty tundras,
The sick smock stitches itself tight
Into weak minds, letting the tasteless
Breeze fill crumbling lungs
And irritate those watery globes.

Loiter about, a zombie in a human diguise
Groans weak reminders about the time:
A quater-past-half-so-near.

Rack the frames,
Tell that man in the corner to shut up,
Guide him out and let the weather be
As lousy as his writing
To save the world
As his nature withdraws
Into the bleary crowd.


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