More these days
I lose myself
and find him curled, cracked and coping.
listless
making dreams less,
getting sleep more;
my mind fragile
feigning hoping.
The outdoors;
pitiful shelter. Air waxing cold
waning chills
I hide in coats
but I’m ever coated
in endless waking dreams.
I want to scream
but a man wouldn’t;
it all turns inward
into my shell;
my iron maiden.
deep breaths
I go still.
My friends,
My enemies:
My gods.
How hath we here arrived?
At these windswept days
and cloudfilled nights.
From days apast
I would think us monarchs
rulers of the One; Us.
How can it be
we’ve let fate creep
settle our excitement
into peat on life’s floor.
Is it that onerous tune?
That wretched tick? That final disease:
Time.
Onward, says it.
The rumble of now.
Faint, but esteemed.
It’s the chill in the air
that pierces your coat.
Hidden studiously
the knotted hair the twitching eye
the creaking chair.
Everywhere but now
anywhere but here
my mind wanders.
And I grow older.
And my gods become human.
And I move fatefully on.