thursdays in hell

a constant grinding maw
of molars crushing
the cyclical lifestyle
of living minute
to minute
in pursuit of ideals
just ever
so tantalizingly
out of grasp

the parking garage
is angry
with squealing tires
going five miles per hour
around hairpin turns
to find a nest
to roost in
for the next
couple hours

the traffic outside
is lazy
in the burgeoning heat
of another
summer day
trapped in metal
and plastic
angrily watching
taillights flare

the medicine dances
in his bloodstream
easing open inflamed sinuses
the pressure inside
to the pressure outside
equalizing gradually
until he can fake being a part
of the world he feels apart from

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