Again

Another morning,

the skies are grey again

and the rain falls,

gathering into a

slowly growing puddle

where it will sit unsustained

until it evaporates.

-

I see my reflection in it,

gently rippling,

feet wet from the

hole in the sole.

-

I arrive home

and the walls

are full of holes, too,

and there is no

cooked meal tonight

because of my failure.

-

I sit uncomfortable

in the wooden chair,

let my hands take the

burdenous

weight of my head

and cradle it for a moment

-

but the tears will not flow,

they sit

solidified in the stomach

the only sustenance available,

stewed and braised

deep inside of an untouched place.

-

In the stomachs of those around me

sit ravenous lumps,

and I am helpless

to stop them

from gorging again.

-

By now, the bad news feels familiar.

-

Eventually, I find the energy

to close the ragged curtains,

and there’s nothing different

in the brightness of the room.

-

The spider in the corner

has abandoned its web

and moved on,

greener pastures

in a black and white world.

-

And the paint is slowly changing its gradient,

losing its brightness, peeling

away from the decrepit walls

my spark found alongside,

somewhere abstract.

-

I blink and then

the day begins again,

reset by the clean hands

of a calloused master,

the great skirmish to survive

prolonged once more,

any attempts to press the pause button

only leading to bleeding hands,

once bitten.

-

Tired arms and legs

are cogs in the machine,

they press the buttons

and turn others into ash.

-

That very same ash

must count as a meal these days,

something has always been better than nothing,

and my cannibal throat closes tight

around the dryness

and chokes.

-

The walk home is rain again,

the walls of home are still crumbling,

expectant eyes are still disappointed,

tumours continue to chew

through quieting bodies.

-

The cycle repeats,

and I spin upon its spokes

and there is nothing else to do

but submit,

-

the coffin long prepared,

but more alluring these days.