an early escape
and the week slips by.
a year now, this person,
this professional.
a mask most days, after
years of silent obscurity.
experienced beyond academic
measure
friction and backlash.
but so what
a rock that's never been rubbed?
time marched its
cadence, the past
season folding in on itself
with little evidence of any
living.
december's throes
long forgotten
as those pristine sheets fade
the ocean existed then
and there was optimism.
laughter of course,
because there never really was.
a long goodbye as
a creative cork.
but the surface reappeared,
as it always does
and the bobbing slowed; shift.
finally time contracts
exposes its tears
to the open eye.
souls fall away and
mood affects the
framework. wanderers
passed, their souls sticky
and spring bounced onto stage.
suddenly the weekend looms, and visitors
promised.
the sound in the room slows
and the realization of
present creeps back
in on an endless loop.