You are as stagnant as the waterfall
painting in a waiting room.
Internal turmoil redefining struggle
as an infinite cosmic loop.
They can smell the metals at work
in your skin
bonding with electric air
and paranoia.
Drops of blood finally fall
to tongues and taste
of darkened rooms
unfounded accusations
abject sympathies
and a life that is
surprisingly
lonely.

At odds with the light at the end of the tunnel,
Friends appear in varying degrees of fog and uncertainty-
They've stolen your light
despite tumbling tremors in searching fingers
You can't find the switch
and you don’t recognize this illumination.

It's been so long you've forgotten there was ever a door.
The setting sun smells like wet smoke
and breezes tickle and warp what you thought you’d forgotten-
there is calm in the mixtures
of sun in grass
of eyes in the field
of self lost in memory.
No one can survive alone.

The children keep growing
The sun keeps setting
The needle keeps spinning
And we keep going.