A Morning’s End

Is work my murderer?

A tournequet digging into my spirit?

Thos parts are scraps now for crazed dogs

I seem to recall

Faint as ocean horizon

The energy was sharp!

Tangible.

Without withstanding time as a factor of capacity.

I would dream worlds.

My limbs are forgotten.

Stiff in brain.

Over-operation.

I built some buckets for collecting memories

They knock overy at times though!

Would  I ever know passion from my spirit again?

It feels like the myth of Utopia:

Nice and nothing

My vision burns with fatigue

After sleeping 12 hours

Hot and hindered

I used to be unusual!

Now I have netflix in my schedule!

And can lose a day looking at the sun.

Will life ever burn lead-white?

Will dreams ever actualize the way my lover lays with my in the night?

Will I ever have anything to say ever again?

This is the sort of problem that makes doctors laugh and babies cry.

This is the sort of horror which makes global warming a project instead of a crisis.

This is the fire that kills

The sore that festers

The thought that poisons.

I suppose the cure could be poetry,

If I can keep this up.

I can dig through store toward daylight

I might be able to slash shadows into pieces.

There could also be a revolution if I eat vegetables instead of hashbrowns.

The thing that truly dampens is options.

anything can happen or has happened.

So much occurs or can occur.

And yet I start my stale day with familiar toast and comforting coffee and words I wrote in four other books.

What makes this time different is that I am older

And I give one shit less

and have seen myself dig through metal before instead of stone.

And came across true love when I was certain I had not had loveable in my DNA

And pushed through on projects slightly after hvaing nothing to show.

Maybe my time is going to be later

Once I’ve dug through time itself

Or maybe my time will come when wormies make a feast on my flesh.

Or maybe my time is now

With this pink pen and this page and this toast and this coffee and this wondrous through that my skill of managing is my power,

Because, through all of the awful days, art has somehow prevailed.

Against all odds, Sarah C Louise made art, and some if it rocked the wave-lengths,

And some of it met only tired minds

But at least she didn’t stop

No matter how much she longed to be devoured by nothing