Exhaustion from the Middle

When the end of the day hits the center of the chest
When the future of the play is in a script locked away
Proportions won't matter as much as the moment
While strictures will shatter, bowing to the ship sway
Fiddling might swing a few minutes more
But compartments will fill to the brim and the core
Futility's breath won't bring energy back
As the sternum and heart fade down to the floor
So sigh and relieve the tension inside
Command not nor see the fences divide