Threads

The sun that rises for you,
slouches in her skies.
She pulls her hair back
and takes a breath
to start her day,
but one just fades into the next.
The nexus between living
and operating
has dissolved into
a dew
and a few
take notice,
but the rest just turn their heads.
Frayed and tattered are her threads.
So, life goes on without you,
but its air is stagnant.
She finds her fragments
mingled with yours
in her glossy magazines
and in the fronts of her stores.
It's nothing tangible.
It's nothing she can hold.
She's just left in a corner,
in the dark, in the cold
where it's safe, but not sounds,
where she hopes not to be found.


********************************

I guess I'm starting to deal with it. But not really, haha.






"O that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd
His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! O God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable
Seem to me all the uses of this world!"
- Hamlet (being only a little over dramatic)
Hamlet, Act I, Scene II