Still waters run deep
with things
caught sinking,
dispirited.

Peer beneath
the surface;
see the museum
or rather
mausoleum
gruesome
inactivity
running
freely
like a faucet
pelts down
the essence
of its existence,
water,
running past,
running through,
but doing nothing
save wearing away
the rusting
plumbing.

The light bleeds
past the facade
where it glistens
on would-be
ripples;
but its presence,
remains a song.

Throng you
incessant sirens.