It's one of those                                          
Dismal days                                                             ­       
I don't wish to leave
My space
Not even
To eat or                          
Drink anything
The worst part
Of those
Dismal days
Is nothing
Ever feels
Right or wrong
Or horrific
You turn
Sick of Repetitive
Pedals cycling
You
Fight suffocating hands
Who steal any
Sanity the mind
Has
Desperately
Salvaged
As you tell
The whole ****                      
World to
*******
in
Spitballs
Of
Fire.

When love dies,
It is not always hatred that takes its place,
Sometimes it is nothingness and void showing their ugly face.

When bravery dies,
It is not always cowardice blowing its horn,
Sometimes acceptance of the fear is born.

When kindness you used to receive dies,
It is not always that cruelty looks promising and grand,
Sometimes self protection and love come forward to hold your hand.

But when humanity dies,
It is always melancholy and destruction making their way,
No good or constructive feeling ever gets a say.

As I stare at the verses,
I must seem so still.
She casts a web
from where she sits
and I smile,
but knowingly,
lower her body
down to the table.
She scatters again towards
the page I have just
turned and together we
weep for beauty

And if all the world's a stage
I'll always find myself

in the third act a nondescript
dot or blob on the backdrop

and if there are shadows
I'll choose the largest one

and move with it
my contribution to you

my gift

Whit Howland © 2020