sunset; bags of curious flowers
drive herds over the hill toward the empty grain field,
and by their side looms a dying oak tree
who plans to creep his roots further into their herd
to die peacefully and in beauty.

but this isn't real.
this not how the world looks.

i'm sipping coffee,
and the tip of my tongue is burnt;
the room across the hall is full of my life,
stacked in piles, scattered in clumps and heaps,
packed, shoved into plastic boxes.
in front of me is an unopened package of 3 needle threaders
reminding me of the sewing machine
that i have been compromising with now for over a year.
and in this mess there are more things, more reminders
of people i once knew, or never knew,
of tasks i'm supposed to have kept as promises to myself--

this is what the world really looks like.

it's a beautiful day outside--
you know what a beautiful day is--
but my skin has a number of arguments
against the sun,
and they're good arguments, too.
so here i've wasted half the day
in front of my computer,
and that room across the hall,
it begs me.

i'm digging my fingers into all the crevices,
all the sores and all the puzzles
of the universe.
yet, i can barely get by a real day.
i am lost in those tangeld roots,
trying to find those flowers,
but that's not what the world looks like.