below the bellows

its hot, in here at least, from what i can tell
too much to be sweating, tears run
just run, just emotions, unjust little errands
from what i can tell
from the elaborate just for a sec.
tools, fools, and money
just money, maintains the mountains
of money
it makes the world turn and burn and it burns
burns my eyes, my hands and feet
no escaping that shallow factoid
shallow, that, below the bellows
pumping hot air and filtering content
the way we react to the revelation that
Oxygen's actions have paved drive-by distraction
no man in my house, but a boy
poignant creature, with shaggy brown hair