Disillusion

The air hangs heavy in the room
Boredom is thick
The silence is uncomfortable
The spirit of retort has died within
Limp bodies, carving niches in their seats
Spectators at an unknown funeral
Priests and high lords come and go
Pretending to themselves and the world
As they persevere towards a purpose
Listen...
Bodies shift uneasily in their seats
Old seats, worn and tirrd with
the years of monotony, silent cacophony
Now hear, they creak of sterility

Outside, natures breast swells
Rises in anticipation to receive
Enthusiastic feet...
The wind whistles a jaunty tune
Nature makes a mockery
Of our nameless faces

In the spaces between conciousness
And the dying subconcious...
The death toll rings.