Monday

Your head is thick,
caught
in an emotional hangover,
battered by a place
utterly lacking answers
or understanding,
a place of fog
where there are no angles,
no clarity,
where what seems to be
is not
and all that is left
is searching, that odd belief
that you can find
that which may not be there,
a mystery without clues,
only corpses
that refuse,
absolutely refuse,
to die.

About this poem. 

Sorry, no real explanation on this one. I really am thick headed this morning. But as is my habit, I sat down and let the poem flow, and this was what came out. Maybe I’ll understand it myself after a couple of cups of coffee.

Or maybe not.

The picture is of the roof line of a local barn, taken early in the morning. Not today though. Today it is grey and lightless.

Tom