Coma

The night smells different over there.
In the cool concrete enclave,
so little is done of merit-
of ambition.

Raspy footfalls on gritty floors, tension-
very little. After this, everything is done;
we all go home and sit; watch a show;
engage in emotion; stick it to the god.

When midnight comes, our stomachs
turn, anxious for tomorrow and how
much time we must squander.
We pitch our beds and rest our eyes.

Consistancy is scarce but for the timed,
repeating urges our digital clocks afford us.
We open and close our eyes, sullen.
Some go back to sleep.
Some never wake.