Morning entered slowly for this sun blinded Bianca,
artfully dodging only slightly
as if to avoid being even momentarily decisionless,
before the same sad uncertainty of another day.
She hesitates, uncertain.
We see how bitter and defeated she seems,
ever only able to approach the abyss.
Cold hearted sworn duty not to jump or be shoved
yet uncertain if it could not be done some other way,
Bianca weeps.
Questions never properly addressed by her,
left to respond within wind and whipping rain,
answers swimming in thin mud of obscurity,
not particularly lost, yet by Bianca cannot be found
by anything but tempest.
Past noon and air decelerates till unclear,
shaved irony appears almost sorry but is never late.
Even the weakling relief evening offers
is better than merely lingering where you have never been
till night falls, somewhere outside of reason.
After the light is again flushed from the surfaces
darkness can be misleading, misleading can be cruel,
blue moon as ineffective placebo.
this day has had no inspiring crescendo.
instead just gives up and fades to black.