There’s nothing I can complain about
except a world-devouring haze of anguish
that threatens to touch every single thing I love
if I don’t acknowledge, constantly, its presence,
as if this cloud were an ancient deity
demanding endless veneration, as if saying,
I’m still alive, at a volume louder than a whisper
would sound the sirens and alert the bosses
to a glitch in the system in need of correction.

Read it in Post Road