Words cannot echo mood.
It’s impossible to convey
the trudging numbnesses
of everyday.

The semi-detached gaze,
the tight closing-in upon oneself,
foreshadow pent up tears
and the tingling that stalk us.

The dim lingering terror in
almost everything I do
enables me to live day-to-day;
fear meanders like an ox-bow lake,
and can take years to settle to that flood-tide
that knocks us off our feet.

It is then time gathers
to a greatness,
like the ooze of oil.
Threads composed of uncompleted hesitations,
tangled for decades sharpen emotions fruitlessly.

Passing consolations
leave a bloody mess
of pointless sense impressions
I just dunno what to do anymore.

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