On those days, where limbs are weighed down by the anchoring grasp of the despair,
Clutched so, I am a wealthy widow’s hand in a room of eager Batchelors.
On such days, the sombre tsunami trapped in the bottle of my mind,
Takes not the form of wronged lovers, disappointed faces or chances never took,
Instead, my raven sings only of sorrow, for the lack of excuses to which I may cling.
As the sailor gasps for air in an ocean void of driftwood,
So too, does the cold embrace of torpor overpower the buoyancy of my mood.
The knowledge that casts me to the jaws of this livid liquid Cerberus? That I am in control.
That in spite of my agency over this body, this environment, this is the circumstance in
which I lie,
Sheets a silken prison enforcing rigor mortis upon a mind mustering movement.
I have no excuse,
For this is the world I have made.
And no excuse,
For my hatred of it to remain.