Mild Discontent
The pacified traffic passes me by—
As if the streets had been lubricated.
The skyline tarpaulin above drips-dry—
Heavy from the noirish pools it had sated.
Disinfected garbage lines the crosswalk—
A hygienic filth litters the pavement.
The air fills with a murmur of smalltalk—
The grievances of subtle enslavement.
I'm between a sewer and a heaven—
Beside the towers of facsimile.
And I'm where the wires have interwoven—
My limbs are pleached involuntarily.
Yet, the further trussed my life becomes—
The more I resist the urge to succumb.
poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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