I hate week days and I hate weekends

Draft

And so
Still
I will rise

From unsettling somnambulation that wove through shadowy spectres of my unconscious
From violent vacant visions and slow dance Macabre hunting beneath Lunar glow

I will

Scratch silent the repeat of the turning table and let the rhythm be
Limbs launch me into the ache of awake and march 1,2,3, 1,2,3 into empty

Still

I scribble another cliche on a page that delivers only sighs or the aversion of eyes
As lonely as its producer, pumped out like mass made grief

And so

Lids blink and fingers sink into heavy and disappear into my thinking
Tea. Tea is made and I crease not a smile for weekend’s masquerade