It is no kind of life.
drowning out the drone of the alarm clock.
We are lepers in the bathroom,
gouging out rotten eyes,
rubbing off rotten noses,
rinsing out our tasteless mouths with tasteless water.
A whole new day, a whole new you.
Life is chit-chat.
Then we slide into history, coffee drugged.
A faceless brushstroke in an unfinished painting
by an unknown artist
that will end up in the attic,
while we end underground.