By Katherine To-Hauser


Bleakness whispers shouting to inspire the

Sickly spinning cogs, dire. For those are days.

Pass quick in sum and un-quick in tales told.

Dull finger-tipped hoarse breath croaks, ‘Are these days?’

Sleep settles screeching Stop! stand still, head lays,

Look up to see the passing days, unchanged

Patterns exhaust- ‘What are they for- these days?’

Sharing woes over porcelain mugs stained brown.

Open smiles, chapped lipped mouths agape, faint frown

By people happy. Sunny beaches stuck

On posters afar. Flat blue stretched curves, This

Could be you, someday. ‘Ah… So those are days.’


Sweat slicked heaving of woeful passersby,

‘It’s okay, [bleakly] there are grayer skies.’


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