It seems to stop, just as it staggers
The words are stale and with no flow
It’s like the water has turned around him
It’s like his brain is on slow go.
No reason why: he’s in the same place.
The streets around have the same signs.
It’s like his head has lost its pickaxe
And his hillsides have lost their mines.
Is this the block the feckers moan about?
Is this way that things run dry?
The irony of ever searching
Within a blue and cloudless sky.
Should he cough to draw its attention:
A shy ahem to draw it eyes?
Is it over there that he’ll hear answers
Before the voice inside him dies?