Showers

of tears flowing down the drain but there is no washing away of heartache and sorrows and anger.


The grime on the spirit is sticky, made up of tiny specks of pain clumped together...their pain and mine. They do not respond to scrubbing, they respond to response. Yours and theirs. Tangled and without boundaries. Running together rather like the snowflake becoming a ball...and no one dances at this ball, throws permitted and encouraged.


Where is the beat of the dance, the grace and abandon of the dancer? Given away/thrown away? Breaking down into particles and Gorilla glue won't do its thing. Make it sticky and sloppy...at times, I'd settle for S & S.

The light within withered, no rekindling. Kindle, that we could read what's coming, how it ends? Foolish thought to desire knowledge of possible multitudes of minnows of mania ...crazy ride on a broken vessel by a broken human who doesn't care if there is a spectacular crash...insurance companies do not pay for planned crashes, only the unexpected
bringing murmurs of sympathy to the left-behinds
Cash, too. Eases their lives while yours fades into muddled memories/delusions/sour reality morphs into it wasn't so frigging awful.