Their Futile Rumination

When things are grey,

much like the skies over our foreseen days of cabin fever,

we look into ourselves.

The walls close in.

We begin to think of things that aren’t true:

Do they care?

Do I matter?

Why me?

Am I as good as I tell myself?


The grey impedes.

Shortened days and wearisome nights.

Patience restrained.

Diving deeper into the abyss of self.

More food, more drink, and more of the flesh.

We begin to believe it’s all fine.


Cover us, grey.

Tell us we will be okay.

Convince us, again, of your dull verity.

Comfort us until we spring ahead.

Tell us your lies — 

we will surely believe them.





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