You’d think the world were ending.
With how null-coloured cracks rack the sky.
And razor winds shred the upside down sea overhead,
Into shards of spray.
And yet there’s something serene.
About being small and inside.
And entirely unaccountable for the downfall.
Thunder shudders you to and fro.
Lightning thrashes in flashes.
Lashing at the skin thin pane of pale glass,
you press your bare body to.
Naught you can do, nor need to.
When you’re more worried about this sweet storm ending,
than your world.
The constant cacophony crashes down around you.
But you can let yourself get deafened.
When there’s nothing you need heed.
In the whole of its hollering.
Though you know this night is not to last.
Soon comes the mourning.
And the tight hot hands of dawn brought beams.
And the everyday.
Every day.
Clenches around your throat.
Because you can’t forget forever.
Can’t not be poked in the eye
by each stabbing sun spike.
For you to be strung up upon.
Until exhausted.
And ever more.
Always more minutia to miss.
Always more to break and fix.
Always more rocks to roll up hill.
Always another problem or person to solve.
It slips into your head that you should step out,
Into the storm.
Suddenly so clear.
With clinging clarity.
Ozone tinged and tingling thick in the fresh forged air.
You recall how they deify those who die defiant.
See how easy not being could be.
Lay out lying down logically.
For once think each thought through to its conclusion.
Relish how fresh you could feel upon waking if you never had to.
You don’t call it suicide,
Not to yourself.
Because of course you never would.
Because you’ve so much to live for.
For as long as you do.
But it’s a comfort how easily you could in case.
And how thin the glass feels.
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One Response
Feeling those “null-coloured” cracks now.