Stub: Open Queue, Closed Future

The record is utterly bare,
With nothing but digital air.
We printed the form,
To weather the storm,
And left it to quietly tear.

An appendix of endless delay, Where margins of progress decay. The forms are received, With nothing achieved, As the paperwork settles in grey.

The ledger requires no ink, To push the old files to the brink. The stationary space, Is a desolate place, Where the process continues to sink.

We scrubbed the intake for the night, And locked all the signatures tight. The protocol sleeps, While the registry keeps, The structural limits in sight.

The corridor stretches in waiting, A vacancy no one is slating. The ledger is dry, While applicants die, And silence is endlessly grating.