Days
I Wake
Afraid
That
Every
Single
Thing
I’ve
Made
Is
Otious
To
The
Core,
Which
Is
A
Bore.
I Chide
Myself,
Not
Happy
To
Deride
All
The
Baggage
I Contain
In
Storerooms,
Shelves,
And
In
My
Brain,
And
It’s
Just
As
Useless
To
Complain.
I Get
Up
Anyway,
Knowing
Yet
Again
Today
I’ll
Try
To
Conjure
One
More
Time
An
Image
To
Make
The
Universe
Rhyme.