New Hours

I pour the violent trials of fear and doubt,

On paper or any place that takes the stain;

Strange omens tasting of the dark peer out,

Where sunlight fights the vultures of the brain.

A sharp, relentless pick digs through the mount,

A soft press drowns the budding shoots of trust;

New hours will sweep this doomed and useless count,

New hours to write and turn this grief to dust.

Pretending to be me exhausts the soul,

An ending known that catches you anew;

The mud-splashed mire retains a firm control,

Far more than all the gold I try to pursue.

Today I feel like someone on a stage,

Just waiting till the front door locks behind;

Cold breathless thoughts climb upward in their cage,

To scale the scarce wit left within my mind.