The weeks
Are but a transient
Bittersweet haze

The prelude to fear
And its gathering
Wilderness of shadow

They are the calm
At the helm of worry
On havoc’s brink
Trembling
In the throes of death

As time jets away
With a madman’s lustful
Zeal
And skewering precision

Hungering, fervently
For the gracious morrow’s rise
Its fields so plentiful
With reckoning

The days bleed
Into a loveless grey
With useless memories
So sorrowfully
Blurred as one