The vessel and the cloth

i

Against my palms, my head rests.
I’ve pondered for miles—
these musings set to wrap around the earth, tenfold.
Why do we perplex over all we have written?

Upon this chair I sit, burdened.
I’ve simmered—
reeling between intervals of gin and tonic.
A crack in the glass excretes my glitches,
spilling unspent thoughts from its vessel.
The spill is velveteen and unprincipled.
I cannot clean up the excess—
for it’s the linen that soaks up the overage.

ii

From the depths of chronic pining,
this newfound pain grimes my cloth.
The ache has depth with strong fingers— pulling
And these blotches from the mire of rumination cannot be cleansed.

I crumple in these nights,
these flareups, in stroll, down a hard-beaten path
These pressing burdens have now wrinkled my linens.
I try to smooth these creases but they’re chiselled—and arcane.
Their edges grooving a nick in my spine.
I stoop—
my chin rests against my chest.
I am no longer able to stand tall.

iii

These fibres that weave my cloth are knotted
like twisted vine—
bending and coiling through cracks in my spirit,
binding my self-worth to emotions.
Where hard tears raze like a sandstorm.
Gritty and honed,
my skin reddened with rash.

These thoughts that simmer leave me paper thin and brittle.
I struggle to have enough weight behind this waif-like structure.
These hollowed-out bones that build me.

iv

Have I any sanity left?
My laughter becomes maniacal—
hanging thick in the air like a pollutant.
What if I can’t take a breath deep enough?
Will i choke on these delusions taking onus in my throat?

I know these linens are musky.
The stench of my spill pricks my nose
with vapours of complex translations
though I have yet to decipher any of it.

v

There’s now a rip in my cloth
How can I go on when my sheath is torn and my glass is overflowing?
This cloth can no longer soak up the spillage.
It’s drenched.
And leaking outwards upon others.
This glass has been full far too long.