Offshore, tucked aside
Hands of the clock overlap, standing upright,
night falls.
From the eyes to the one of concern
that's been long out of sight,
an inadequacy comes forth.
Without any inherent cause,
things fell into place.
With disparity in distribution,
hierarchies in hidings of roles were made.
Some explored self expression,
living in the extended sovereign state,
caged in a secluded space.
Then faith emerged,
for the sovereign and the jailed.
The spent side took to God.
Back after the community wear-out,
too spent to lay out
the favour of the actual odds.
Those on the left
raised their hands out
to claw onto a farfetched regime,
which escaped their nails,
into their thin air;
from the silent uprise, little was achieved.
To show was an atheist's string to pull,
latched on,
onto a figure of human proportions,
much like the theist's god.
The arms of the clock began to fall
for the right,
the eyes still struck by a similar plight.
This time, some other perspective struck,
faith started to come undone.
Both parties had their moment of realisation,
as the station froze somewhere offshore,
or the curtains that shut,
and called in for the night.
As was the descent
from birth to hierarchy,
and the closet that harboured the left.
The distance grew.
No exchanges were to be had among
the rebels hiding in shelters
and socialites, their core function differed,
the middle ground was far unsought.
The utter odds
that created a duality from nothing at all.
As shared understanding sank,
collapsed the house and the facade.
The station had hosted its last train
a few hours prior,
and as they grew more aware,
the eyes had a dream, they realised.
Farewell to the night.