It feels

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

it Goes

It feels

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


It feels

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.  

It feels—

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.

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