An Occupation
by Josh Smith
A dull buzz arises
From a similar crowd.
The voice of an ocean,
Its words lost beneath waves.
With pressure increasing
To draw breath is to drown.
Space between syllables
In days without hours,
As one we take cover
From their furious tongues;
Waiting for the spiral
To respond to that sound.
While monuments crumble
Into meaningful dust
That grinds against our lungs,
We lose all faith in time –
Its movements transfigure,
Disappear with the breeze.
