Calm is only the ability to slow down gracefully,
separate out our imagination from illusion.
But there is precious little anxiety shelter to stay in,
been kind of short on those supplies.
Some small ghosts of it have found their way in
but at first, having been so long in confusion,
we could scarcely even recognize them.
Thinking seemed to indicate at least momentary defense,
though using the limited time to decipher all the lies
may or may not be futility misrepresenting common sense,
not even clever enough to at least merit repeating.
Wishing is even more fruitless, hoping barely tries,
with best intentions and good outcomes rarely meeting.
Is it off on the future yet or just now present tense?
Reality’s lightning came inside wreaking mayhem
too many times; in too many small tornadoes.
Tine has never been kind to you with all the lying,
distortions of the facts by the criminals that claim them.
When the mountain strips you from itself the way it does,
like a parasite been brushed off a of host now sick and dying,
the parasite shrugs and seeks another; all the same to them.
Silhouettes of stress form vicious circles ubiquitously,
think what these chiseled out spaces and shapes imply.
Why not wait to see if once we can some way figure how
once again? Once seems to keep missing twice, why?
These shapes are figments mostly escaping unnoticeably
yet are mostly what this despair is all about;
is our demise still in the future, or here already now?