Month of the dark-sun day
Is come and gone;
Excitement and pilgrimage are over,
Faith may still exist,
If just a little paler than before.
All hope is left behind.
But I am still surrounded by the masses,
The now-uncomfortable neon buzz
Of people’s expectations hemming me in:
Pressures, white-noise and demands.
My hair-trigger patience, screwed down too tight,
Stretched so fine for too-damned long
In denial deference to their suffocating presence,
Their petty wants, the ignoble trinkets they
Think to need, those truths they believe they do not,
The hunchback minotaur shadows that,
Drip by drip, stain their pale-limbo souls,
the noises they make – insect clamour – without speaking,
While they invade my precious spaces, steal my breaths.
This be new-hook moon territory, and
I wish to be done
With the all the demands they impose.