gray with a colour of chance

I plot movement, filled with fumes, haze.
The callous push of the sked,
The toil I don’t even know I’m doing.

I tie a string around my finger so I will
Remember to lock the door.

Steam screams from the lips of the kettle on the stove.
I wait for the margins to appear.
A missive that blows in when needed most.
A scratch around the keyhole.
Days of nothing done, nights of startled sleep,
The expansion of a worry into a strain.
The brows cluttered, a thick furrow.
Rivers circling the mind, and the wind.
I move quickly.
There is snow in the cell.

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