04 Thirty Three

When time stands still
In the tight grip of glazed apathy
Amongst a silent yet restless crowd
Save for one calling aloud

From time to time the leaves flutter
Under the watchful eye of frozen lines
In humid climes of a southern town
Oppressive scene of dull agony

At the final breath of a strung out hour
Comes the apocalypse like a blinking eye
Steals recorded moves in a forgotten game
Till nought remains but a ticking clock

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