When do strands
turn to fetters
And when they are,
how do they fray,
and snap.

When do words turn
sterile and cold,
and turn into
words,
nothing more.

When do expressions
turn contrived,
blase, pithy,

cold, at times

muted.

When does it
begin to make
sense, the madness,
and sanity, sidles

back in, warily.

When things come,
Full circle?

Damn you!

Besotted by this song.

What do you do with it,
Cover it up?
As if you could.

Maybe fill it up, with
everyday stuff.
Try if you will.

Grows and drives you,
up the damn wall
Till you yield.

Why it weighs more
when there is less,
anyone?

Words at times ease,
the afflicted malaise
or the ache, but

What do you do with
the wretched
oppressing
gnawing
chasmic
deep
abyss?