certain she doesn't know,
though certainty does little when chaos blots out reason
in the center she's a sage,
but when she spins the rage destroys
left in the trail, trailing behind
stomp in the puddles, splash in the mud
delight in the mess one day,
another drown
silver linings on zero clouds--just the white, fluffy, distant stuff
(sometimes grey)
(then again, usually grey)
(and white is just grey's dream for betterment)
losing the sun, forgetting its warmth, forgotten light in this labyrinth of dust
settling dirt into pores of tired skin, weathered hands, and leaden legs
disjointed thoughts trickling from the eye of rationality
connecting the dots of hail pouring from tear-tired eyes
racing through ash, apathy begging to conquer
resentment's hold on the flailing statue,
bending to the wind,
crumbling in the dark,
crumbled already--
scattered particles
lying comfortably on the aftermath, on yesterday's grave
too weary to fathom "tomorrow",
afraid to go to sleep
