like sinking stones in search of the surface
too solid to taste the joys of liquidity,
drowning in dreams, that dreams remain,
dragged down by routine and identity,
but concatenations of tomorrows
that are already forgotten
while songs of freedom bounce from the wall,
to brick to brick, unhearing heads
discuss the weather,

thick fogs that cloud the eyes,
and fat fucks that live the dream,
it's material salvation, and it isn't cheap,
but you might just be able to afford
if only you sell all your time.

the more material that they collect,
the faster their descent,
and on the sea floor they shall remain,
unnoticed in the darkness

            the cemetery of lives unlived