Photo by Alex_L on DepositPhotos.
Flowers wilt and
bloom again,
a child gestates
inside my friend.
But this sickness is the furniture.
From cosmic rivers
sunlight pours,
a lost cause.
This grief is
big for her age.
Ponder footprints
through a periscope,
a misplaced hope;
numbed
in the amber of now.
Every eye contact
an alternate reality,
a terrifying fantasy.
I dither about on a
comet hurtling towards devastation.
An infinite labyrinth
choked
with one-way exits.
Every choice
murders another.
Malaise, white hot,
in sets the rot;
these apathetic canyons
buffeted
by a raging nothing.
She is an anchor,
a lighthouse,
a tether to this world.
Yet at every crossroad
I take defeat lying down.
An ageing wastrel,
grown misshapen,
wading in the quagmire.
Thirty years peering
into the great maw.
