and never really facts.
the feel-ness of it nests like vultures
sitting on your nerves.
Or slowly mournclouds shifting by.
One never argues with the shade
It stays a while and often times
but never VERY bad.
A kind of throbby dullness swollen
into lumped-up silence.
You never bring it up or say
the fey away, you play and stay
pretending it’s not there but gone
you pulsing it the blood
and vital tissue of your life & cells
and still it sulks for more.
Feeds on boredom grows in gloom
Turning listless into martyrdom
It no longer seeks a kingdom
it has won.
but only if the sun
is roasting its albino flesh
that tries to twist away.
It deals in feels so only facts
can burn its blight away
and turn the glooming silence
into early morning day.