I understand

how joy smells like rain,

how fermented flowers

rot into perfume,

how laughter is most rich

when there are tears


but today

even joy feels out of reach,

a bar raised too high,

a shelf beyond my outstretched arms.


Today the threads entwine

worn out,

nubby, frayed beyond repair;

stark sky a dull cloth

behind the painted trees on stage,

wrinkled angels staggering,

unseen disequilibrium causing nausea

offset by ginger tea;


joy a shrill lie,

beauty a muffled truth.

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