Waiting Until Noon

Maybe I’m avoiding the tension, the difficult conversation.

I’m avoiding the pain, prolonging it, allowing myself to toy with it, knowing that there’s nothing toiling with the heart and mind inside of myself and with you, I don’t know if there’s room for two. I don’t know where the rhyme is right, where it’s at, you tell me, I don’t know!

Guessing, and turning around and around, allowing for sights to burn the sound, what’s real? What’s fiction?

What’s a creative play, unfolding in tragedy of my mind, and what’s the beauty or maybe suffering realizing itself outside of my line? I don’t know, I don’t know. It’s unclear, it won’t show.

Creative destruction is what I’ll call it, a creation of chaos, a creation of misery. Nothing to celebrate here, only disaster and fear. And who blames?

What’s there to blame?

Isn’t death inevitable?

Why blame the executioner?

For doing it “too soon”? What’s better?

Waiting until noon, when the sun gives out and the wind breaks and nature says

“you’ll die too, you’ll die soon.”

We choose to fit into misery’s shoes, when there’s more room to bear the joy we want so clearly, I’ll only know now, surely. Questioning, quizzical, creative civic-all duties, there’s nothing more than holy, fanatical rubies shining its own stories.

All is well. You may be unwell and all is well.

Maybe it is hell, after all, maybe it’s hell.