This Is Called

Just like the frame,
That hangs from a nail piercing,
Your heart,
I rock with unpleasant emptiness.

Biding time for nothing,
The sun rising at midnight,
Would hardly rattle the routine,
Of a people that live by time.

Hand out enough gems,
And we'll walk in circles,
Thinking each step is a progression,
Mundane shuffling silencing one's self-will.