Something is trying so desperately to fall apart,
Tearing at the edges of eye lids, pulling inwards and seeping through a vacuum in my heart.
Something is trying so desperately to burst these seams and leave itself strewn upon the ground.
Some days should be Sundays, just in case it’s a day to cry.
If only we didn’t know when the week started or began, we could write a new calendar each morning, and let ourselves rest.
Rather than stifle this unknown guest, who has stopped amidst shifting air to stay a while upon our shoulders.
As storm clouds gather, grains of soil tumble upon the Earth, yet it seems sunny outside.
Nevertheless, all prepares to shake and shudder until it loses form,
Delirious destruction, crazed for new creation, a gaggling mess of past and futures born.
All brewing beneath the pretense of collected hands, calm above typeface.
Who knows where this wind blows, whether a passing gust or a clarion sounding a changing time.
The collision of selves, mingled and mad, fatigued amidst the chaos of order.