Friday, I should’ve escaped in the wisdom
of Proverbs & Pratchett’s Thief of Time as
every beautiful hour unfolds petal for petal
and the rose of time grows until the flower
begins to wither, vanishing slowly until the
next flower unfolds into a new perfect hour,
I’m stuck in real life’s mind-molasses and
cannot create a special meaning within to
fill the mystery of my own being -
A headache grows insidiously until my mind
broadcasts on emergency frequency where
mental gymnastics manifest a fluttering fear
of the immense abyss in my head where all
life disappears - oh, where’s the crocodilian
escape from physical reality where my eyes
search for pink & silver glitter to mark every
moment in delicate glimmer - only to find a
bleak steel-frame out-line of life instead -
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