No Time

No time,

no clock for the chameleons.

They slide through hearts like 

bad jazz,

riffing kindness into currency,

polluted rulings,

eyes rehearsed,

mouths like matches—

they light what they never built.

I’ve seen them—

in confers with laughter,

behind the applause,

feeding on echoes,

calling it connection.

No time.

Just rhythm—

a syncopation of take and twist,

souls sold for smirks, and a check—

love bent into leverage.

They play sincerity

like a horn with no reed,

all breath,

no tone—

still somehow convincing.

But we—

we’ve learned the silence

between their beats,

the off-time claw,

the moment the mask nightmares

and the music is litter

and all that’s left

is noise pretending

to be song.

Stapled.