Transfer
Salon K.L.
Crippled
by service to life,
He
sits, tries to nod,
Accompanied
by a rhythmical hum,
Air
con frenzy and a squeaky shriek.
Casts
of tribal dis-stain
Parted
to the four walls,
As
the neon now pulses
In
a silent desperation for breath.
Tropical
heat, held at bay
Behind
plated eyes to the world,
As
day break fast approaches,
Like
the shuttle train
From
the satellite hub.
Neck
drooping, finally beaten
By
the strain,
Journey
makes lame, dad.
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