Sloppy, Unfinished Poetry: As If

She was trapped with the sounds
of the last song reverberating
from hair to hair inside
the outer part of her ear

and she was twirling on her unmoving chair,
nervously, looking around at all the folks
of her foolish generation,
wondering why they all hide,
incessantly, behind the faces
of new technology

as if a voice, formally genuine,
could crush the air that sustains them,
as if there was nothing, but darkness
surrounding around their light,
only things with which to stain them.


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