Detritus.

Tell me why it is that I,

can’t pass a single day in time,

without finding some clue that I can’t deny,

without becoming frustrated enough to cry…

it comes down to a lingering absence,

one with a most futile consequence,

simplicity wrapped in self-subservience,

an epiphany stinking of decadence…

so the tension builds itself up inside,

without feeling myself to be justified,

without a handle on things that are mine,

without the backdrop of sensible pride…

speaking feels too much like negligence,

thinking leads me deeply into petulance,

another layer peeled away from my relevance,

until it’s just another wound full of detritus.