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Existence
November 1, 2013
The sky is a pale expanse of unspoken desperation,
frozen blue melting ever so slowly—
quiet deliquescence, a gentle apocalypse.
Liquid pools beneath my leaden tongue, and
the sea-sky slithers down my trachea
into oblivion.
I woke this morning to an untarnished day, and saw
the sun's streaks of molten gold stain the gray of my bedroom wall.
I didn't think about the sky stretched above me like a pall
or about the colorless walls I thrash against in the night.
Dream, wake, and forget:
This is the song of routine.
(This is the cacophony of existence.)
© Angela F., Bonham, TX
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