Afternoon.

Polite sips of sugar drinks;
The gentle pulse of guitar strings.
The frantic pull of thigns to come;
Threads lacking in this web we've spun.
The violent lights beneath we sit;
A twist-cap to prove that we exist.
A stack of chairs, beneath me sways;
A clever plot, and thought delays.
Colored buttons, each pressed in turn;
Watch me, as I watch this burn.