Mis-inconception.

My world has come to simply run,
from the hours along the clock’s face,
a faded, inglorious memory –
set to a graphic novel’s pace;
my brain fails to properly function,
a tongue that no longer senses the tastes,
a smoldering fire in the drizzle of rain –
a most unproductive state;
a heart awaiting my own execution,
a mind long-gone from the body it drives,
a residual pang that radiates –
a reminder that I’m still alive;
my anger has seethed past retrieval for me,
from the losses stuffed under this belt,
a mad scientist’s beloved contraption –
the most painful pride that I’ve ever felt;
my feet seem to fail to carry forward,
from the spot where I tread tearfully,
a high-speed human hamster wheel –
that has come to start getting the best of me;
time is not nice to the rebellious hearts,
building its blocks behind a jaded mask,
an immaculate mis-inconception –
of the answers to any questions asked.