Hollow Hours

I badge in beneath a leaking ceiling, Count dead hours, call it healing. Paper piles and plastic smiles, I lose myself in measured miles. I sign, I sort, I feed the chain, Wear a clean shirt over the stain. My hands obey, my eyes go flat, I vanish where the numbers stack. I say I'm fine with a borrowed face, I build my cage and name it place. Every routine carves another line, I wake up wearing yesterday's design. I am awake, but I never arrive, I keep the schedule to counterfeit life. Round through the frame, through the same old flame, I write my name, then erase my name. If this is living, let the fault ignite, Cut through the dull machine tonight. I am awake, I am awake— The vending light spits red at me, A cheap prophecy in circuitry. My footsteps land, but I miss the floor, I am the lock, I am the door. No clean escape, no polished dream, Just one bright fracture in the machine. Turn it up till the walls confess, Strip the script from the emptiness. I won't call this loop my fate, I pull the lever, I change the weight. I am awake, and I now arrive, I tear the schedule, I choose alive. Round through the frame, but I break the chain, I write my name and keep my name. If this is living, let it ignite, Burn through the dull machine tonight. I am awake, I am awake— No hollow hours left to take...