Supple sighing under heavy, hot lying in
places pressing lower and ending slower,
down dripping into this ripple-ripping roar,
down into the core where it means more
than a soft sending that ends this ending
Happiness was the forecast one afternoon where the weather was more than whether or whether not work would drag today into dusk without a cry into the night.
The light at the end hovering in the doorway will be mine in less than five.
What are hours in the way of happiness when I am assured it waits for me behind the slapping red door- shadowy screen- sticky lock- dread when it opens with me still a prisoner and a person enters willingly.
They only enter because they enter with servants waiting and can leave at their leisure.
I will not let it conquer me today because I know outside that single grated window it’s sunny and today I will not drag myself to an empty, exhausted repeat of yesterday.
I never expected rain awaited me; sunlight was a wish through the window.
Happiness is fickle, as an expectation is a question we lie to.
I wrote him off in style
at least to the ill trained eye
ill obtained through the trial of tried
and try again.
I was sold on washing the whites out of our eyes,
out of irises unfeeling
to reflect and strain to add commentary to the ordinary.
The contrary doesn’t exist outside our domain.
You’re outside your dominant typecast role
reversing your rehearsing into reality,
reeling from sealing the moment into past
shattered glass fragments forever reflecting.
While we’re forgetting, flesh is getting torn and cold.
Soon has been sold