Eyes open to terror
in the algid morning.
Creeping matutinal
dementia; What
world is this?
Less recognizable
each silent morning.
Ghosts flit and fade.
Dawn's rosy fingers
clutch your throat.
So difficult to
rouse in this world
devoid of desire.
Why are there
no flamingoes?
What happened to
the exaltation
of singing birds?
Where have all
the women gone?
Each day a lesser
version of the last.
Each morning a tomb.
Be patient. Hope
the stones are rolled
away. Hope to emerge
into light. Life is
light; life uncertain;
the future not
what it used to be.
It is so hard
to wake up and
create creation
when you are
not a god.
Pretend divinity.
Pretense is where
old men go to die
and the only
way they manage
to live. Make coffee,
make images, make do.
Something or nothing
awaits.

  ~mce