Some mornings,
the world is unremarkable
smoke bleeds into an indifferent sky,
sand burns gold under an unrelenting sun
the mundane hums its lullaby,
futility settles under the flesh
like a second spine.

Life is
clawing at the seams of society
and convincing yourself
you're leaving a rip,
following roads that promise no end,
mistaking recklessness for revolt,
and revolt for meaning.

There is too much wiring in the skull.
Too many knots to untangle in a single lifetime-
taught to love life
before grasping the
absurdity of being alive.
longing, ruin,
hunger, belief,
every pursuit an ******
for minds too sentient
to sit still in the void.

Ricocheting between too much
and just enough,
too many,
too alike,
each thread
vanishing into the loom
small enough
to unravel nothing at all.