A faceless figure repeated one hundred times,
One hundred fits and rages without a face,
One hundred miles in a car that's stuck on E.
A soap box standing on empty words,
Words that fall from my mouth onto padded realities.
Tiny realities I wish to hide,
Like stains and smells.
But my nose works fine as do my eyes,
And I see the skies darken at 5 o'clock,
And I smell the smoke of one hundred amorphous faceless figures.