A futile exhibition
Coffee grounds pressed into tar stains
Through the same filter used yesterday
A gnawing, clawed hand
Rips clump after clump of
Neutered hair
The budget cuts have stated
That one of you must go
There is 1 bullet in the gun
Take turns
The bull crashes
Through the wicker doors
The classmates sleep
While the teacher scores
Harness and harvest
Invest and ingest
Cultivate
The somnambulist walks
While the artist
Forces upon closed eyes
With pitchforks
And toothpicks
The weary cannot work here
There are no set hours
No shifts
Just time compounded upon time
Working against your movements
Striving to upset
What only you
Could have crafted
