ghostly snacks of the mid-dayMature

Frustration hangs like dead weight on my bones, curling my posture inward, hunching me over; hooked in like anchors on my collarbones, buried deep in the crevices and hills of my joints.  This ennui will not be shaken from me.   All the words I cannot find expand in the spaces between my ribs, aching to get free but too bulky, too palpable, to get out.  I drink my tea, I smoke my pipe, I wait.  I watch the hours pass in gradual succession, one after another, each longer than the last, as one watches a death march.  The bitter taste of despondency like raw liver on the back of my tongue.

The End

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