Parapraxis

The stench of a new day

Sends the mice to their wheels

A mundane stress controls them

To ignore what's beyond they feel

The emptiness in strangers' eyes

And the silence between their ears

From the dead circuits fried by routine

Become normal through the years

For the sparks and the wires, the screeching black tires

Become the noise that quells their voice

And bulging, red vessels and the angst that has nestled

Into the id, which will wake from its slumber