Empty Conversations

These suffering souls speak circles
around contempt like fat flies hungry for attention.
Buzzing their grievances to tired ears
weary after hours of false information.
On and on in stagnant complaint,
Unmoving, unsoothing voices suck on reason
and spit out a smog of disgust
that lingers in the morning of the shallow sun.
Whispers now, soft and urgent.
Cooing the monster of greed who sits most familiar
upon the shoulders of the infantile,
extracting its purr as an elixir to be drunk
in the comfort of the home, or anywhere at all.
Faster run the voices to a hollow destination.
Minutes burned, hours turned into sand that
fall through the fingers of the Holy Architect
who weeps for the future with crystal tears.
And still the sounds reverberate in ugly tremors,
weaving in and out of my consciousness until time tears me away.
Empty projections of a substanceless future and
selfish reminiscences of a stained past
coat the air and coax the fair out of the 
endeavors of the honest who blink their romances
and sleep with the calm of relaxation;
naive souls bent sweetly for tomorrow.
Smiling at the memory of the day.
“I’d better go,” one of them says.