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Flatheaded
The sky says storms
And we pass along our bodies
To the roadways and gutters
As litter and traction
Without hope for another
Or rain in the gutter
We're squealing our tires
Fighting ways home
To the heat and the stick
The AC and carpeting
We'll mat our depression
Or hang it on the wall
Our impact to guide us
An outside perspective
We'll just ourselves quiet
And fear all reproach
To stone ourselves daily
With the drops of grey dye
To punish us soundly
For uttering a word
We sit in our closure
Of sound mind and body
Just to be rattled
By the chimes of another.
