These hands have not made for days.

Days. Days is a word of time,

and time escapes me.

It presses in on me.

Evades me and pounces again,

knocking me down each time

certain it has done the job for good.

But I dream of leaves

and I smile in this space

I call home, which I have built

and shaped into something acceptable.

A place which offers,

if not solace,

then at least a private venue

to thrash my head against the objects inside.

I could leave wherever I am,

and wherever I went;

back and forth.

A bullet in a box of lead.

Never sure, because certainty isn't permitted.

It's all on me.

Thrash thrash thrash.