Levels of confinement, housed inside pine wood frames painted twice over exposing expressions censored from group think, to complicate the norms elicited to down and out investments, sold like white bread to homeowners covering their mouths before a yawn, when told about doorbells outfitted with cameras functioning as paparazzi, but instead of capturing celebrities eating pizza they snapshot city bus riders exiting the vehicle, stowing groceries gifted to them by the food-bank. 

A moth traverses obstacles familiar to crowded sidewalks, recognizes the tight navy blue suit hugging the slim shoulder frame of bank manager almighty as a building to glide above, striving for Heaven like a fallen angel.

Famed for survival, these are the portraits of becoming human. Dependent on concrete fascinations, definitions never harden, rather they’re in-flux to the crumbling infrastructures charged with naming reactions sustaining progress. 

If the ending has a name, who’ll name it next? 

That’s the cycle of dust…