muted monday

there is an
internal struggle
against external
stimuli wrapped
around this
compulsion
screaming
in my skull
the world itself
is wavering
the pressure pushing
the center of
my skull outwards
in the too bright
want to be summer
sun gleaming down
angrily
magnified by the
fog bank hovering
over every thought.

i can’t hear
the birdsong
just the echo
of your voice.

that’s enough
for every bit
of my broken
except the howls
demanding i write
even as the words
slip between
notes of you
and clumsy hands
incapable
of holding tight
to anything
but this tsunami
of tidal despair
this need to
appease the forces
tearing me apart
as your light
keeps me together

the incredible
pile of poetry
in shards
of monomolecular
shades shifting
from end to end
of the spectrum
a transient spirit
trapped in the
collapsing heart
of a dark star
watching as every
atom splits
across my fragile
candy coating
exposing the sheer
lack of depth
making up these
fathomless dirges
heartslivers dripping
black blood
onto the pristine
image of you
clutched too tight
hoping you can
hear ny voice
in the birdsong.

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