Providing this day will eventually end I can offer some
semblance of repose for a tainted heart-journey in excess
Brilliantly rendered there is not much left now that will
impress, an original frontage on an old despair relaunched
into a swerving space of possibility held back by monolithic
efforts and a vain sense of urgency. The search goes on for
months and still there is no sign of your missing aptitude
you are all balled-up like a crumpled piece of paper
shaped by an unremorseful grip, you will not cede
despondency unto others despite their insistence. Maybe
it's a trick of the light, the way your headache fades, cast
indelibly in this floating space between extremes of being
manic, sunken, unhinged or lurking undetected there is just
a hint of the mundane but not as much as you would like
 
You are hiding again, your skin like a veil your forehead
stretched tight across your face, you write poetry instead of
working and look where it's getting you, look where its
crooked arrow leads, you'd rather not think you'd rather
not know you'd rather imagine Him, as he said he was
not as you know he is, after the possibilities have been
all burst like bubbles and there is only the sagging regret
of a foolish encounter with a fraud and your own raggedness.