I.
People gather beneath a dead sky,
an audience carved in stone,
waiting for the hoax to end.
II.
Every eyeball fixed on the same horizon,
watching nothing,
become something,
become nothing again.
III.
The city is caving in
without making a sound.
A siren buried beneath concrete,
screaming through the vacant streets.
Leaving behind a silence,
so vast
it has forgotten how to be silent.
IV.
Behind the walls,
yesterday is fermenting,
turning warm and sour
around everything we forgot.
V.
I walk through the loop,
as if repitition were a law,
as if returning
could ever mean arriving.
VI.
Maybe the cruelest hoax
Is that we call this living
because everyone else does.