it feels momentous—this time in life
there's a lot of emptiness, a jarring scab at trying to fill it with more emptiness
there's eyewashes, there's loving discourses, there's a hateful terrain—like a bulging lava, gone cold just in time
there's even a recognition of tumult,
of doom—impending and recurring and omnipresent
there's a callow urge to not work and to sit back and sleep it all of
there's a lack of sleep as well
there's an absent hunger and an effervescent thirst
there's a fresh quake sitting right below the gut
the grounds are unsteady, the air is rancid and heavily trapped
there's an urge to root the feet in the cemented floor
there's a skin beneath to coax, pull at
one thing is completely sure, though
i have seldom felt this secure about all the insecurities
there's coercion, and the usual paraphernalia
tight-lipped, one has to breathe through
it won't just pass
then there's a skeletal framework of support too,
a book here, a person there
a casual flick of ash on the rim of a stolen ashtray
minutes at work where laughter recedes from the fringes and takes over the frontlines
there's minimal interference,
a supple slab of butter to croon at at times
there's a book, then there's another one
to find yourself in
there's a safety net to fall back to—the usual state of not caring
there are people who remind me of me
and odd comfort derived from their presence and casual absence
there were things that were ignored and other more platonic things that took the forefront
now the foreground is nothing but the ignominious memorabilia of what had been ignored for so long
the disparaged importance of things ignored for far too long has a way of catching up
the recent importance of all things life undergo a sour change
the salt of the ruins of what were once dreams hits your skin
charred remains of the day collect themselves in your lap—like unwanted doggos looking for love and attention
i squeeze the ballyhoo
i make merry and dance in the skirting helms of the ruckus
and i think of the foreboding that has now become a sweet cheer
a lovely squiggle dances on its toes
and it occurs to me on this sun-stung morning
isn't every turn in life momentous?
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