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Diesel
There is always a front,
followed by quiet games which
loop and spiral, attractively,
and suddenly you're just
infuriated, and alone.
When the stillness settles in and
you're confounded by silence,
you stop your attempts
to make sense of the time,
and linger.
Then you'll be stirred by
some dread-stricken fit
of restless insomnia, emboldened
by nothing, the absence,
the space.
Which, if you're lucky,
will force you to build, if only
to utilize all combustion within you.
You will expend yourself wise,
and lay beneath shelter.
You'll stop making sense,
turn to the familiar and lament;
at last you'll find a place to settle,
and you'll grow fat,
and tired.
