the dust on the shelf

the sky weeps over the masses and their banners in the streets. a storm only serves to swell their shouting louder. they cry for justice in a world they once believed in. the man on the speaker tears a knife through the facade: ‘there is no law and order’. we shake our heads and mourn the hope we held for what we thought we knew. heavy rain makes rivers of the sidewalk and buckets of my shoes. I shout along and love the storm more than I could ever love the sun.

when the words stop working there is very little left. the lack of sense persists without a language. I face the abyss in the absence of reason harboured in the mirror’s eyes. I smile and hate my crooked teeth as though they matter. my hair is a nest of straw I fight the urge to tear out. the fixation alone is cause to smash the mirror with my fist. there are children dying on my phone and I can’t get over myself. I bottle loathing from the fountain of my daily disappointments: stored for myself and no one else in cellars only I can find.

sleep waits on the pillow I dread leaving. tomorrow is another stone I’d rather leave alone. I am the dust on the shelf I can’t reach.