What Now?

What is it you want?

Phrasing and the para’ of

swings the words to tones variable,

fleeces the heart or flogs the wits

depending on flight or fancy.

I slink back under covers that deny the day,

That refuse entry the light that wakes memory,

That speaks without sound of a new day to bare,

of a hand that wiped a face free of yesterday

and is determined to paint its day with newness,

time passed, new moments.

I want to tell it to do one,

to exit itself back into the night where time went,

stored itself as present and not past tense.

I want to tell it to fuck off,

to shut the hell up and quit bugging,

but it is a cheeked passing

and will not halt to my favours.

Just what is it you want?

I have not the energy nor the desire to find out.

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