This is bad, part i

In the dream, you are far away as the thread of horizon 
And voices always sound waterlogged and gentle. 

This stupid space and dull flickering room is full of 
That murmuring voice swirling in the air busy entertaining

24/7 customer service calls, indistinguishable 
Sounds and incessantly fighting against silence.

Hello, how do you hear me. Hello and hello and there can be
No respite in the dungeon of our minds as we sit and listen

And talk till our lips turn into the curved dried up rivers

Of a satellite photo. This must be a fever dream.

I am always at arm’s length away and there’s a dozen
Conversations but I can only hear yours calling 

From across the sea at the end of your line, straight to the
Paper cup I hold beside my ears, pressing to decipher the 

Distortion of years between me and our childhood
And the hundred voices telling me this is a bad idea.