It’s dark for the second time today,
though I never quite managed to see the sun.
Phosphorescent road lines measure off
the seconds and miles of my life spent traveling
(though I seem to have forgotten the destination,
lost somewhere between desire and complacency.)
The butchered sky crumbles apart and slumps,
held up only by the thin fingering wires
that shudder and stretch under the weight,
but I’ve outgrown my Chicken-Little days.
I pull to the curb beyond the last lamplight,
parking where the world dissolves away,
to wait for an epiphany to strike
and fill me with something—sadness,
or joy, or anything but this endless apathy
that fills my monotonous, repetitive hours.
Minutes drop away like wood shavings,
time better spent sleeping squandered
as the night air distends and bloats.
As I ease the gears into position,
the wind whispers with a hint of fear,
“The sky is falling.”
I tell it dully,
and cross into that gray world
between life and death.
“It always is.”