One layer of regret

Choking, on when I came to this lifestyle:
my daily unappreciative chant from sun up to afternoon
where I live in a wave of process, hurried,
conceived by a mindlessness so dark, so dull,
it could morph a spirit into ash.

The dreadful mourn of afternoon to evening
reminds me that I am alive: though barely living
the vague abstraction of a clock, stares at me with wilful eyes;
I pop another to vitalize.
A buzz to reconcile,
a manmade wing for all the ages.

I forget how long it took, how many fears were necessary
to keep me in this run toward a success I do not want.
But now, too enveloped for a change,
I watch the horrors accumulate beneath my feet,
trapping my ankles, sworming my bruised knees,
cemented to the days ahead of me, which only promise fear.

I hate the way I admit to being shamed into this
when it was my own tasteless choice to join this working field.
No one to blame but the blame itself,
which grabbed hold of my naivety and birthed the inner beast
I wrestle with every day.



I'd like to run away.