Poem; brave new world with other brave new worlds

When the circle is torn, by the weight of time between have and have not,
Gauged by little foibles rolling on the floor,
Looking forlorn, trying to place another bet,
That pays off in a flat two dimensional score,
Of benefits set up by the emptiness, of steps and intervals, that are equal to, or less than, a history lesson on a door to the crypt,
I just had to look,
Under those shiny penny's that cover their eyes,
They all took,
The bait, that cost their lives, exchanged for a script of lies,
Though the books,
They sell save their hands off-line, from the theater of trials,
So their smoochy smoochy,
Would never feel the pain of crooked fines, behind the binds,
Only truth,
Would wear their disguise, blind with beautiful coins,
Underneath friction casts her net,
Over all the sailors, and their visions, they kept to themselves,
In their over due dreams they wept,
Waiting for signs of the winds, from up their friends insensitive sleeves,
Every touch comes with a short rope,
And every turn leaves familiar burns, that become their private trends to conceive, of the doldrums of tacit blame they never escape,
When all those pasted pixels come to pass,
I've been washed and worn,
By all the intermittent faces,
That crept like a fevers over the waves,
I settle back into another form,
In the absence of flight,
I grow a firmament of cracks,
The calls of abandon fade into background of sight,
Hints of my life are all recast in blight,
Bent to remain on loan,
A strange version of circumstance and silence,
Where I slowly turn to stone,
Trying to run faster than my chances can make up the road ahead,
I know my friends won’t touch any such load,
I see them with their weapons drawn, caught up in the hustle,
Of their eyes that feign innocent smiles, they know how to work that muscle,
Following the directions from the pipers call,
Talking files following number by number, behind the wheel,
To keep the battlefield clean with fuels of belief,
My lead boat burns all night, on a concrete sea,
My eyes turn to steam,
Little vapor pools,
Outnumber the fuzzy spots where touch becomes subject to other scales,
A dancer once flew, in the eyes of two,
Puppets feel the mild sting, the subtle cauterization of the strings,
Branding onto the backs of little seeds, they come back to mourn,
Clowns at the inner core,
Split the foundation of form, bring them to the fore,
There's the worry forever more,
Dissolve and coagulate the castle designs they pour and pour,
To escape the killing floor,
Hollow is the war,
That fronts the numbness to carry all forms,
With the rancid breath of death to celebrate their desperate convictions of survival to stick to the life force, by narrow laws that brings the laughter soundtrack to comfort the storage machines lore of more than enough torture,
Out on the sea where you best begin,
Blue bells only something you can get though a contract,
Like a terminal disease all these pages to pretend who's gonna win,
You you’ll secretly tell yourself in the end,
The buyers, and sellers guarantee, and you’ll agree,
For you'll sue them for it to keep it to yourself, no-one else will make sense of the wind that made your head spin, unable to send a message to a friend,
Who sings to you with a raspy a cough, while you forget the rest of the audience, and a rough exposure will demand,
The waves you can't resell,
Far or near, neither return nor compel,
Yourself or someone else to a upend, offend, nor keep the peace or extend,
The place to survive the poisons we drank,
A thousand years in the tank,