Sunday morning is a spiral of dimmed lights and despairing shadows, of stairways to nothing that dance in the distance and turn around to find time no longer binds this strange and tired mind.
It is a body of fatigue, so tired that it turns blind, unable fathom what was once wondrously divine.
Windows no longer open to a whole wide world that I want to view, but are closed, painted black with spider web thin cracks that let less than infinitesimal light in.
Hope is made for forgetting, until a long sleep restores my stores of optimism and inspiration allowing poetic explorations, as the windows open to finally let more light in and the stairways shift restructuring themselves to new realities of delightfully exciting possibilities.