the thunderstorm
adds an ambiance
in audacious chatter
as angine de poitrine
plays mata zyklek
in a fury inside

i sit
stunlocked
in a loop

so long starving
an olive branch
extended
without a few
actual olives
feels like a slight

without a salve
to sooth the savagery
of a thousand tiny cuts
issued in a dereliction
of duty dragged out far
past common decency

the call for banter
screams of a distinct
superficial sincerity