EVERY DAY IS THE SAME
THERE IS NO TIME ANYMORE
ALL THERE IS TO DO IS MOURN
SWEEP THE ASHES BEHIND

everything is so manic now
contemplative silence,
the ashes littering the floor -
roaring tinnitus,
the flames around me -
reminders of three inevitabilities:
the ever-receding past,
abandoned and dead
the superposition of the present,
locked in LIFE/DEATH/REBIRTH
and the unreachable future,
trapped in the limbo preceding creation

EVERY DAY IS THE SAME

is it my hand?
the fingers poised over the rewind,
keeping the loop alive?
have i trained my reality
to salivate over its regurgitation?
or does my reality feign domesticity
devouring everything i can't keep my eyes on
the moment i look away?
i have only those whom i have clung to
and those who have no alternative -
dead weight slung over shoulders
long overburdened

THERE IS NO TIME ANYMORE

what surreal madness is it
to think that i ever had control?
the fingers suspended over rewind
are severed from their hand -
it was never mine
an unfamiliar mimic

what grand delusion,
to think that reality would spare me
the pain of repetition
the pain of abandonment
the pain of apathy
the blade of a dagger
tucked between ribs
split skin, stained red
internal hemorrhage

the cost of a broken cycle -
the price of escape -
paid in blood

ALL THERE IS TO DO IS MOURN
SWEEP THE ASHES BEHIND