Angles piled upon angles
where pressure is defined in concrete.
The whistling will never stop
and it makes my stomach grumble.

We lurch to elate,
bend to break
and wheeze with augments,
fired and fused.

Look up and you can
see the insects dancing
beneath the boards
that creak and crack with the weight.

Without sound, we wonder
if this place will ever end.
Tears slide on wire and brushed
metal from a height unseen.

We are at sea with the thirsty
clouds that claw at my empty flask.
We are at war with the staunch
longing for terra firma.



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