Walking the same waking steps

knowing there’s little use fighting,

though the taste of a curse

is most decadent on the tongue.

Knees, wrists, neck, sanity all wobble

in the face of a bastard sun

who’d obliterate us all as easily

as it turns on its great ass

like a giant heading for rem sleep.

–

Dreams only come in the

resting moments between despair and glee.

There’s not much else to say in passing.