The daytime is a sickness
Starched sky scraped of stars
Maps and birth stones dissolved
By the burning whiteness of it
White blood cells feasting on clockwork limbs, your whole life
Metastatic futility
Flailing up and about and around
Thrashing the daily melee
Ants picking over a famished crater
Sickly emptying in the morning
The poison contents from the day before, the weeks and months and decades before
What ugly objects dribbling forth
In the relentless shine of the daytime
That cruel joke told each dawn
Where you pretend the fading picture
Of your life is not hollow
You are not a battery animal
Leaking what little worth exists
The phosphorous, the iron
A walking seam rinsed dry
But something more, infused with grace
And love and colour, and so
Are you lashed harder in blindness
You can be nothing but sick
Dry heaving in the whiteness
Empty more, the bleached spirit
Resolved to mount the bloated
Rotten daytime, what else is there
Left to do but drink up
Your morning cup of formaldehyde.
@nepion_boreas17
