Tattered like old rags

I’m tired before it begins:

unravelled from years

of worry and work.


Gravity crushes the light

into the room’s corners.

I move, a fragile ghost,

with slow thick steps.


Once again, I’m pushed

back into the grey chair

to stare out the window

at nothing in particular.


I know what to do,

but the thought wears me.

(April 5, 2022)

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