These days the habitual ache
Is far worse.
Far worse because
I know it cannot abate.
The storm is forever,
Shelter reserved to hurried moments
Scrambling beneath the eaves
Of a thousand trees;
Bearing no fruit
In the stone-cold furnace
Of my self-regard.
Things got too hard.
Things got too heavy.
Things accumulated like unread books
On weak shelving.

Eventually
It only took one word
To bring the whole thing down.

Eventually
It only took a whisper
To be drowned in sound.