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…
