I started writing a poem about Eros and Psyche
But the melodrama made me sick
Certain obscura does it. Swept up like a pigeon on your park bench or a rat in the garbage next to you,
It's nauseating. Comes on like a large pill forced down to your gut.
A hard ball, steely at the core but soft when you squish it, inserted, stapled to the center of you.
Out of nowhere, a black visage willows from the deep and engulfs, catches, strands, strangles in a sandstorm with no clear direction.
Your day is nothing is nothing redundancy.
I undulate through life
A lead float bobbing with the tides rather than fighting them.
Every once in a while I can see through the sea salt and sand and view a life that I didn't want to lead manicured before me on a mocking-silver plate, perched atop a red table cloth.
The never ending feast finally feasts on you.
Lost, and alone in a library of 10 million books.