The clock clicks

And greets you good morning,

Your lids unveil your eyes

To the bright sunshine

That you embrace with a stretch

And catch not a sliver of interest

At how gripped in your hand is your

New slate.

Then, with each blink, each breath

Each moment of worry, of wonder, of content,

A drop falls,

From behind or beneath,

An angle you can’t see,

And blotches the blank slate,

Marring the blank slate.

It grows heavier with each drop,

And you heave the loads, so hefty

That gradually cumulate

As the day ticks away

And that you fail to ever empty.

The drops turn to a downpour,

Teardrops of the peace perhaps,

Wailing at how you have far strayed

From the morning’s blank state.

And then you will lie on your bed

The ceiling, the wall, the window,

The only food for your eyes.

And then the story will begin.

The story of your chase.

You will build a place where you can describe

This pursuit

For a pursuit is what it seems,

A chase after something greater than

A chain of creation and rejection,

Pride and disgust,

No, not a chain,

A cycle.

Then, the weariness will control you,

Convince you that rest is the goal,

The haven your pursuit leads you to.

And for a fleeting moment,

That will suffice,

You will find yourself on your bed,

The weight of the slate weighing you down

The ceiling, the wall,

The only food for your eyes.

But a build up, a similar cumulation,

Will foster an urge to escape

And you will pry and break and destroy

Under the assurances

That a return holds.

For this return will not be overwhelming,

Will not be scarring, will not be depleting,

Will not be drowning.

I promise you.