Drunk Dry

Fog unravels its gray threads to smother the sky and numb the mind, words slip away to find other mouths to fall from. Wallowing in a low funk, enveloped by a dull dislike of these sprawling hours, and this gun-metal sky shuffling along as a ghost in carpet slippers. Into a deep glass of wine shrinking spirits sink, listless lips sip mechanically. Words wriggle away as if escaping a fire. Idiom and phrase morph into clichés. Too few words arrive to pin down or hammer onto a page. The wine has no taste it was poured too early, drank too late. A mist lingers in that headspace where creativity slumbers listlessly. Daylight grows old, the mist turns red it's not the sunset painting these thoughts - it's a sullen anger. That anger began to grow around 3pm with the realization that I really have been unplugged from myself, and that today no eyes will see those lost or found words which appear when I allow a white electronic page to turn me on and not off.