These are the days

These are the days

When the sun never shines

Does it even rise?

Though clouds part

And a brightening

Appears in the swirl,

It is a stony light,

Impervious to life.

Slow air clumps together,

A dirty grey swamp

Of lazy molecules,

Floating.

A miasma

Of empty cells.

Tiny grains of yesterday

Which hold truths

Never loud enough

To be believed.

Yet so thick and viscous

They stick in the throat.

In the midnight hours,

Shivering in silence,

With only a

Sticky snail trail,

Meandering over the flagstone

For company,

The passage of time

Is peripheral

To this fact of being,

Days are crushed

Into insignificance.

Darkness complete,

Heavens extinguished,

The sky so low

It is a closed lid,

A velvet lined casket.

The moon,

Barely a torch song

In the distance.

The stars are dead,

Even the ones

Which speak of living forever,

Use words that died

Before we were born.

And still we try.

Tell me why,

When even the answers

Are tarnished

By repetition.

And nothing changes

In the telling.

When inertia

Is a defining force,

The silent voice

Remains lost,

Haunted by the vacuum

Of washed up days,

Strangled,

In the knotted twist

Of endless night.

Lost to the world,

Wedged in the cracks

That might never exist,

Between

The drift of the soul,

And the beat

Of the heart.