The morning fog clears, leaving a gray afternoon like all the others.
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The morning fog clears leaving a gray afternoon like all the others.
The gray skies outside – I can feel their weight. Strangely it’s not a burden.
Pulled under the sea, reaching for a purchase by grasping at the moon.
Frustration, loss, hope, and confusion observed while “empty” hours pass.
Chomping at the bit, stamping hooves, whinnying, and shaking the bridle.
Creaking and moaning, advancing a finger’s breadth: idly maddening.
“An apple a day” is a cure for what ails you? I prefer sick days.
Trapped in my own head, taunted by wraiths and wights, saved by small kindnesses.
Rushing around at the last minute doing work and planning mischief.