It doesn’t have a start
or an end—
just the hum,
the buzz of your brain
in silence.
Internal electricity.
You try to catch it—
like lightning,
try to sculpt
something:
words,
clay,
paint on a stretcher canvas.
But it doesn’t escape.
The tight grip
on your chest.
Eyes behind eyes.
Screens
before mirrors
before windows.
The buzz in your head
blending
into the melody
of fluorescent lights.
I walk the streets to stray around
As horns hang still, surrounding cars
No people pass, no flowers found
The clouds stay dark, the sun stays far
No light, no sound—a man was hung
These buildings block the burning sun
We take in air with dying lungs
Restored to life against the guns
There is no more, it’s all in vain
Without direction known, unknown
A daydream where it’s all the same
The city cries on buried stones
Forgotten landscapes, desert blooms
A people left by littered gates
