The gray skies outside – I can feel their weight. Strangely it’s not a burden.
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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.