Don't Roll Your Eyes At Me (tweaked version.)

Trapped in a plethora of ice-blue perfection,
A glass house; but inexplicably, I can find no reflection;
On the cusp of a breakthrough, a telephone rings,
Obnoxiously incongruous against played out notes that float,
With wild abandon, from rusted guitar strings.
Unnecessary chores; nights we struggle to recall,
So we go through the motions blindly, throbbing head,
Closed off heart, disused brain,
Now I’m running to catch the nine am train,
All foresight blurred by torrential, unforgiving rain,
I spilled a cherry soda, hope it doesn’t stain.
We pass a cleaning shop I used to frequent; now it’s empty.
The owner ran away because he couldn’t pay the rent.
Such a dreary world long past its use-by date,
So we’re left, bereft, caught in this clichéd rhyme,
On the precipice of epiphany, let’s step back, and waste some time.