Outright Haste

I guess that's why I don't write anymore,

I tell her. Words are like fast approaching

tombstones now. The hue of the muse is solid gray.

Dust ruffle shadows. Tobacco midnights. I still

compartmentalize the visions. I'm hoping to return

with a flurry of potent insights. I wish I was

less abnormal. More aware of the growing absence.

She hates when I get this way. A negative wingless

form in hack stagnant pools of sadness. Eventually, I'll

lurch and veer back to the inevitable outburst if

the pattern holds true. She is wise beyond her beauty.

You have to, she implores. I'd rather be productive.

The weather is a convenient excuse. So is the familiar

monotony. But I'm content with mental starvation.

In my bomb shelter. In my falsehood of haste.