It was a day, perhaps a Tuesday,
The sun was brilliant, sky a flawless blue,
A slight breeze strolled through the trees,
A deep despair rolled through his heart.
That which roiled up inside became his body,
The choking was his, the dizziness, the confusion
Dressed in his skin contained, too, his slouched soul,
Slouched like an old hat, formless, a shape undoing itself.
His heart was beating, his breath came and went as it should,
He was riveted to nothing
Did nothing, sniffed at time and
Set his mind beneath a trembling moment,
The moment during which all things
Move a little closer to what they are.
Umbriate Press Poetry 