Each Night

It seems like my reality leaks through my eyes,

like a mollusk constrained open by mallet and etch,

protecting a mysterious nobody can name.

An uncovered nerve murmurs with electric torment,

yelling, "I can't rest. I can't eat. It's excessively."

The world watches peacefully,

trusting that the tempest will pass.

The shade drops,

furthermore, I retreat into shadows,

an empty phantom playing out similar job many evenings.

There's no commendation, no last venture.

I stagger straight ahead of the dogs,

legs shaking as the load in my mind

at last collides with the ground, broke.

Wounds blossom on my arms,

however nobody sees what left them.

They pulsate, weighty with stowed away reviles,

hurting deep down.

On my kitchen table, a lime sits split,

its juice depleted.

A toothpick cuts through its tissue,

close by a raspberry going to spoil.

The toothpick splinters;

everything goes to pieces.

My clench hands grasp as I recall —

there's dependably one more evening.

Once more, and once more,

also, consistently later