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.