The Pocket Bank

I do not hear the ants

The crawling infestation of spreading hunger

Where the blackberries grow on a silver vine

Everybody reaches for singularity

For the fruit that releases it’s grasp of time

For the hunger that holds you close and 

dances around the room

Humming the song of copper and fatigue

I do not hear the whirring of machines

Because I have closed off my ears

And cut off my senses

You could call me a ghost

But what would that make you?
 

Moth__

TX

14 years old