I draw my finger slowly through the dust
This is how I send through the message
I love to watch the small particles rearrange
Like metallic filaments moving with a magnet.
There is creation and there is decay
Forced upon us like the abandoned chair
On the side of a busy highway
I can see the broken luxury from my 50-mph glance.
There are days thick with starch
And I drink them down slow,
Love the weight flowing in my chest
I will it not to choke me.
Why are some days heavier than others?
What changed in the atmosphere
Or in the atomic weight of the metaphysical
That leaves me feeling like this?