The World forgot it's shape.

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.