The Mag 158: All Is Spilled

Photo by TheFoxAndTheRaven

All is spilled

There is nothing more

I romanticize. Not bath

nor sleep. Not the ache 

of empty night. 

The voices are of no comfort.

They press me awake endless hours

Is this an inquisition? 

Must I answer? I am pulverized, 

strained through a cauldron 

of one sided talk-

I look to my wrist

I look for answers

I look, I look...

Michael A. Wells

The Mag 158