Cycles

Evenings like this echo childhood.
The house grows dark in the dusk,
Depressed by the sinking glow
Of pinks and gold.
My mind is heavy
And my head aches
With dull wakefulness,
A memory of monotony,
A habitual cycle of dawn to dusk to dreaming
To dawn again.
These two worlds we straddle like prostitutes,
Needing both to survive,
To endure the chaos of the mind.
In the dimness,
A remnant of the daylight pans the sky,
Throws confusing shadows at the wall,
Which then absorbs them,
Grows moldy from their clinging moisture.
My day is gone;
I slept it away
To avoid thinking about what I cannot have,
To dream instead about having what I don’t want.
Asleep in the daylight,
Awake in this dark realm
Where possessions are monstrosities that
Suck out the soul—
Needless, uncaring items,
Unneeded and uncared for,
They say nothing to me and provide false
Truths that bleed across my forehead and
Drip over my eyes.
This cycle will continue as it was before I believed I’d escaped
From its curse.
I never escaped it to begin with,
Only delayed the pain of knowing it exists.

3/2008