Collective Anesthesia

The walls are pale yellow.
The colour of thoughts
numbed into oblivion.

The ceiling fan murmurs a chorus,
to the hum of a sporadic fly.

A voice drones on…
and on… and on…

A voice drones on,
like a gently rocking cradle,
hanging from a bough of disinterest,
carried by the force of its own momentum –
never has reason to fall.

Numerous little lights.
Smothered
till they flicker on and off –
and die.

The walls are pale yellow.
The colour of thoughts
numbed into oblivion.

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3 thoughts on “Collective Anesthesia

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