I listen to the clamor of a broken chime,
Fingers trying to recreate a broken rhyme.
I used to feel the verse I borne,
But words fell dead in their prime.
Living each moment was I, in the past,
A zombie I move in the frozen time.
I trace and retrace the steps I did tread,
Groveling for marks in grunge and grime.
I suffer not from dementia I know,
Stuck up within my own sweet slime.
Too long has “MIRAGE” for limitations argued,
What follows now is some dead dry rime.