by Richard Vince

It is some sort of game I play
Against myself: seeing how hard
I can fling myself against
Night and day, desperate to
Leave a mark.

It makes no sense, but then
So much doesn’t.

Night and day last forever
Until they snap from the tension
With which I stretch them
And I fall down, become
A shivering mass of disappointment
In a corner of the floor.

And when I pick myself up,
I find stains left on the
Coming days and nights, and so
It feels like the game never ends
Even though I stopped playing
Years ago.


Posted on 11/15/2021
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince

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