INTERIM

Days lay down,

disconnected                           from                       one                    another,

shuffled cards.

No storyline or heroine

here in February.

All meaning less and less.

Don’t know if it’s accumulation –

heavy five month pile –

dense, diminished days, diluted

light, warmth,

leached from my marrow

in time with the sky.

I’m

parchment dry,

brittle paper doll,

bloodless because sunless

shriveled spirit,

desiccated sorrow,

Pinch me – I’ll crumble like ash

at last

mental agility evaporates,

no thing matters.

Two weeks passed plodding,

I trudge through existing,

hungover from darkness,

dehydrated, de-luminated,

mind on its withered limbs limps

this marathon interim,

28 days

between snow and spring.

H. Dare

tired-runner

 

 

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