Oh, these days of grays and blues. Oh, this sad parade of flesh and bone. The world has a way of not wanting the very things it has created. The world doesn’t sift and sort. We are as we are, with choices and facts and figures we can’t fathom. We are as we are, within our individual parameters, our modes and our leanings. We change or don’t in a place beyond our witness. The possibilities are many, but they aren’t without limit. We work best when we share the benefits and mitigate the ills. Alone, we don’t really work at all.
The years have grown thin and cold, their hollow eyes, their morbid bones. The body gives way in sprints and slogs, weary organs and worn out joints, missing teeth and diminished capacities. The spirit goes more quickly, never much for ceremony and ready to fold out here in the dull abandon. Where love betrays and oaths break and all that’s left are tasks and duties to uphold while the roof comes caving in. Kinfolk and animals and the ticking of the clock as the world goes dark. The long night and no one speaks. The end years with no one checking in.
The sorrows won’t slow, the gone and the need to go, the begrudged kindness and the smiling curses. Here we go, another night a little worse than the last. Here it comes, the pain that won’t relent. All that’s left just words and weeping. A few more deaths, another betrayal or two. More words without art or merit. More free labor and hidden fees. Peeling the rags off one by one, the bathroom fan, and the bright bare bulb. Blood dried to the wound, a tearing sound— the sweet scent of dead blood and rotting flesh. Time is not my friend, but then, neither were my friends. I step into the shower, sick to death of me. Just like you.
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