Routine is a guise we don, unwrapping the passionless circle at dawn.
Coffee brews, the hiss speaks cycles — steam to resignation, warmth mourning confinement.
Locks click, doors cradle outages of glory, the glade whispers whole.
Time, our graceless friend, sidesteps with gentlemen’s bow, yet shackles in laughable consent.

On schedules etched with invisible ink, we dance not for love. A guided waltz beneath fluorescent stars, leads our stumbling—the brass harmony gone sour.
But dwell! Consistency spills its silent hymn, undulating silently beneath the skin.
Rebirth of thoughts, kites untethered, foul sleep awakens only to stretch—a smile of desolation followed by ennui.