The First Days Were The Longest

First, it was the delusion of normalcy.

Repetition had leaked the moments of the greater

moments that they like a single bird looping an unknown

or forgotten language had

represented. Or undecipherable.

A wave understood by itself is a

catastrophe.

Enough of them will compose a sedative

you neither choose nor know the end of.

If this was not the most you could

expect – well, when the last days are creaking by

like everything creaking – bones, chairs, walls

struggling for breath – you can fill out

a survey of your satisfaction. You can be honest.

And yet creeping up along the borders

of even this was the ivy of a malaise so personal I

hid it from myself. The hint

of Chosenness was waiting underneath bathmats

and the curtains already drawn back.

What was it waiting for?

To itself be chosen.

To itself be the delusion of choice.

To itself be called abnormal.

And willed.