I used to believe in grand gestures of the human spirit.
But now I cling to tiny morsel moments I fill my days with,
dissecting my year in detail. Mindless games,
anything to drown out the blank rage walled behind
My days are poorly written story arcs.
A scrape on my knee, blood seeping down my pant leg.
Mud on my white shoes. A butterscotch candy.
Then abrupt endings, like the set on an old film.
Lost in memories of a drunk director.
Every night I crawl back in my hole in the ground,
pulling the ash and soot over my body, a
blanket of rotten earth. And then waking up
choking on muddy aspirations realizing
I have to start all over again.
© 2020 bryce anderson