The saddest part
is that it never stops raining,
and the rain brings no promise or purpose,
only gray shadows that thrust
thin needles into your chest.
A cold conundrum of a morning
rests on the fields, yielding
its weeping truth
to whomever is brazen enough
to demand it. I’ve relinquished
my hand in the matter.
In return, I receive a smattering
of platitudes haphazardly arranged
upon a cracked porcelain platter.
Who can flourish under these conditions?
Apparitions arise like cries from the horizon
and sulk in the damp, despairing clouds.
I move among them unnoticed,
unsubstantiated, my nerve
negated by nervousness,
my discernment dislocated.