the trouble with heresy


icy table tops press airtight against burning cheeks
dead daisies lie dried and shriveled on dusty windowsills
with freshly bald dandelions as mates
that’s always how it ends up.
soft flurescent bulbs project a sickly blue on the linoleum floor
and clothe the room in hazy, glowing embrace
a pall that sings you sweet lullabies and little lies.

troubled, wide eyes and bitten lips
reliving days past in the middle of the night
sometimes into early morning hours
when horizon has barely broken
and nothing feels quite real

except a quiet padding of rubber sandals against chaffed white feet
in the back and forth patterns of rumination and great pondering.
an eerie monotonous song beating on and on and on.
teasing sunspots and shadowy characters skip across the walls
always a few steps ahead of the limp fingertips that trail aimlessly

wherever.

the body eventually throws itself in exhaustion
back into an open sanction of quilts and pillows
but the mind is forever reeling its line
farther out into deep midnight seas,
sinking past magical undergrowths,
that sway darkly with the tide’s relentless pulse.

uncharted on any map.

we’re not exactly sure, but

the hardest part of living just may be finding air for breathing.