I sit alone, an island surrounded by half walls.
Voices stir the air: a raspy murmur, a tenor metronome.
Picture the bustling activity as they talk, as they walk—
As they act.
Space expands as I withdraw—
Inward, collapsing, an imminent supernova.
Does the danger haunt them?
No.
Do they imagine happiness?
Yes.
Complacency clouds even the sharpest mind,
Dulls it, deadens it, until one day—
You can only scramble to collect the sands.
I wait and watch,
Deriving a sickly pleasure from chaos unfolding.
And when the sands stop—
They will devour themselves,
Ouroboros come—
A timeless suspension of decay.