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.