Unlisted transmission.

Three empty seats 

these snow capped peaks 

a greyscale video terminus 

to a Submissive pixilated screen.

 on the outskirts of a sleeping town

A man caught up in his own

existential existence in a mindful maze 

With no map to the outside world.

And all these ideas 

that might mean we might exist

Put the welcome mat out

too the real world

And don’t forget 

to pinch yourself.

These ideas of living in the past that 

Were never really possible 

The mind filled with shadows 

Sinking into a corner of the room 

Now flooded for the

observation of a silent television.

The bells ringing intermittently 

For the intermission 

A life captured on film

These final moments 

Of a unlisted transmission.

Graves often open doors

Do you think I’d follow 

You down a corridor 

The numbered signs worn 

the strip Tube lights 

on a floor.

The pictures of a world 

Ripped and torn 

those redrawn Atlas lines 

stacked high and strapped 

to his back a long lived 

burden for this ride.

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