Mud of Days

Threads now severed are all that was left

holding together some facsimile of sense

crafted from the mud of days

repeated repeated repeated

and never lived, only felt

washing over skin like a veil carved from marble

The face beneath is screaming

choking on absurdity

as its own hands grip the walls

dragged down ever deeper

searching for air in lifeless barrows

beyond a maze gate hanging from its hinges

What do you consider a luxury in your life?

Photo by Ricardo Soria on Unsplash

9 thoughts on “Mud of Days”

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