The trepanning opera, or so calls the
songbird of self burrowing, serenades
that hunched over fellow I see in
dusty reflectives, hair thinning and
eyes glassy. He moves as I,
our arms differ but our reach
identical, as we snatch time with
greed. Our nails puncture the spoils
of our war, digging and rending
the flesh so nonchalantly, no
cry nor wail bothers our tunnel,
vision locked on prize above all.