The breaking apart of an ideal remains the breaking apart of something.

O, this carpet, this mattress.

I tore at the wall all night, I decree.

And I pictured fierce torrents jetting from the fissures I'd caused.

Within the whirl of half-dreams.

The evening shoved its nose into my flightpath, and coiled about the rungs of sleeplessness.

I won't fight, I will fight.

I shan't toss my next year away into the expectant wind of the world.

The measure of one's life contained,
Within an overstuffed shelf.

Too often,
I've succumbed.

Mind the pools, that sit on sidestreets in my neighbourhood, I graze past.

I run past.

Lone but with a legion of cheerers in my ears.

A haunted water.