

Compulsion This is the clock I refuse to setCompulsion by ~revolut10n
This is the room now my temple, where wood still snaps,
circulation and gravity still apply.
These are the neighbors who complain silently,
begrudgingly in the lot amidst shards of headlights and bottlecaps.
This is my compliment to white noise, to television
feeding back, whirring dishwashers,
basement laundry, low humming fluorescence.
This is the house that no one visits, echoes of steps on maple
where, in the future, trumpets may blare
--but not today.
These are the numbers adding up to your voice
already gone, I knew this and feel no different.
This is the cold day of