The Infinite Hopelessness of Suspension

Perhaps.
Perhapses are so potent,
Cramped with power.
Filled with possibilities,
Of anything.
Anything becoming everything,
Too soon, too fast.

Perhaps.
The building is frozen,
Bricks of nostalgia.
The roads are collages,
Of deep, faraway visions.
The faces are tearful,
Full of feelings.
And god's reassurance,
Is it not but
Amber in a glass?
The grand drinkers will
Silently confirm,
God listens.

Perhaps.
This mind is a trap,
Saying such things are true:
It is a prison,
And my otherworldly wings,
They are clipped.
The keyboard has rusted,
Beyond attention.
And destiny is designed.
The mind is such a trap.

Perhaps.
Cruelty is a choice,
We call upon ourselves.
The rib-cage contests
The heartbeats.
I fight --
Fear,
And boredom.
Fear and boredom.
Fight, fear, boredom.

Perhaps.
It would be better,
If the curry didn't spill,
On to washed, ironed clothes.
And books started speaking,
And work-hours wouldn't
Be like prayers,
Hopeless,
Unanswered.

Perhaps,
It would be lifelier,
For dreams to shine,
On our palms,
And amber to sing
On our lips,
And perhaps,
For perhaps
To lose all its power,
Would be terribly, terribly
Satisfying.

To grow out from,
This infinite hopelessness,
Of suspension.