Unceasing Obscurity

The hum drones on.
Cars pass,
People talk,
the clock ticks,
and trees walk.
Bricks fall,
Lamps bust,
the sidewalks jump,
and man is dust.
Papers fly,
Sirens call,
the chairs sit,
and bugs crawl.
The hum continues.

Passed

Mean something more, you sand on the shore, and we'll soon declare you fit. Fit to parlay, on your own crochet, from the loom that lover's knit. A knit that resembles a baller's mitt with a ball inside to cast. To cast, at last, one's heart to the mast till the toll of a whistles blast. A blast, so aghast, yet meant to alarm of an event that's long been past.