Everyday

oh, lonely life, what have you made?

what bodies laid beneath the dirt?

what prices paid in days and years?

what whitens hair upon my head?

what dead despair descends on me?

no answers sent have ever come.

if only silence had a voice,

a verse to weave, inverse to me;

i might perceive another’s mind

but soundless hallways always lead

in twisted course returning me

these thoughts recursed and burning mad.

my dreams are graves exhumed in sleep.

the morning comes, reviving me

to die a death of wasted time,

to watch the sun go up and down,

encircle me with days and nights,

its arcs in seconds measured slow.

• March 2026