These days.

These days bring such little comfort.
There are more black spots on the sun,
which I am convinced are the hollowed eyes of a former self.
In an angry world,
I am a cool, tender splash of immortal complexity.
Under all tensions,
I am a breeze, blowing against a barren landscape of the soul.

I want to say so much more,
I want to write so much less;
the swinging door of indecision plays cadence to the wind, however.
And I march in circles,
burning a hole through more than my boots,
burning a way through a thicker core.

These days bring such little comfort.