...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LLdt8GrpCIY&ab_channel=TheKillers-Topic

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His hunched frame -

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Bent, adjacent to his desk -

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Dripped with the exhaustive residue 

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Of sleeplessness 

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And the inlaid asthenia of cognitive fatigue -

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The intravenous anesthesia of a syringe leak -

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Into a delineated puddle

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That'd been forming about his feet. 

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They were just books,

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Just academic articles 

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On literary theory, 

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Historiography -

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Just tasks,

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Errands stacked like the innocuous piles

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Of tabloid magazines, resting in a physiatry office -

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It was just a job, just a focus,

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An obstacle that took the form

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Of a university semester

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And some legal correspondence.

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One that he ought surpass,

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Climb over,

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As if it were a barbed wire fence

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And his destination resided 

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Opposite the prison confines 

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Of a shadowed police station 

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Or the brief, periodical infractions 

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That connoted a community service sentence -

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But with each stroke of that pen,

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Every click of the keyboard,

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With each flicker of an ultraviolet monitor

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Against the mirrored deadlock of his gaze,   

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Each adjoined revolution 

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Of twin-handed midnight

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Within the delicate mechanisms of his watch -

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He felt little pieces of himself

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Melt

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Into a thin, finite pool -

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A gently ebbing shallow

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That'd been filling a basin 

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With the steady flow of his perspiration.

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And every so often

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He'd scrape the heel of his shoe through it -

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Rub its texture beneath the rubber of his sole -

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Wondering, 

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If given enough time,

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He'd eventually have to wade 

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To escape the precipitation 

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Caught 

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Within the confines of its bowl.

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