Every Day

Every day spreads
like a spiteful spiral,
malignant, ungrateful,
moored to murky dreams
drenched in bitter dew.
I watch the sun swim
like a saint, pristine,
yet pitilessly practical
while I'm caught
'tween smoke rings
and glassy things
that keep on breaking,
like branches or bread,
only fruitless,
tasteless.
Thus,
after the diaphanous daze
of daily dementia,
the moon comes
like a cooing dove
or a milky pillow,
placating the pulse
of existence,
expurgating
the spiny whispers
of the world.