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Glass Ceiling
by Quinlan L Gibsonred hot rotors, cooling motor
the silence is deafening and regressive
Content is not the word; grinding brakes
can be heard for miles.
Anti-progressive and inquietude lead to illusion.
Full-throttle into the wall.
Nothing to consume the blankness stares back
and I begin this free-fall.
Blurred lines lack sense of time; days, weeks float by
and I try to focus my eyes
on the stillness of my mind.
Injury to mentality, intellectually speaking
freaking out deep down in this abyss of nothingness
and I miss the sun by a mile. 07/26/2010 Posted on 07/26/2010
Copyright © 2024 Quinlan L Gibson
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Stephan Anstey on 07/26/10 at 03:03 PM "Anti-progressive and inquietude lead to illusion."
heheh. Nice. |
| Posted by Max Bouillet on 07/27/10 at 12:52 AM The effects of speed as you plow headfirst into the imprisoning prism. As you smash against the glass you dissolve into fractured light and your motor is burned up. Wow there is so much in this! Great read. |
| Posted by Morgan D Hafele on 07/27/10 at 03:42 AM this sounds like my job... but written much better. |
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