Post-Cubicle Vanity

Matte black hard drives

and half-working space heaters.

The lisp of commands drawn

apart from what is un-apparent

and instead is more translucent

as it is then whisked away

by bottled vodka glass.

The mix of crass, overbearing

and dangerous noise, which

surrounds and dissipates

simultaneously, as if saying

that it is and isn't, a presence

which whines in the head 

but lovingly dulls the heart.

The silence that follows,

and it is but silence,

which permeates the walls

as the day has died, and

the thin lines of life 

trail to a stilted halt, drawn

to end, as ever-frozen timesands.

Then, flame's rebirth, rekindled

in two electric wings and

voiced again, to be put back in

the bottled glass, again for the taking.

The shrill, wistful scream of the

cyclic day, the process that returns

which drips a moonless night,
    eternal.