Jittery

I sometimes sit and wonder,
What of the thing in mind and body,
That shackles the very thought.

I didn't wish to step beyond the grave,
But the light seeps through the tinted windows,
Now opaque and frayed.

It's an aside,
The dew on a monday evening,
And it's something beholdent to thy brother's arm.

Today,
Tomorrow,
And yesterday.

It makes no difference in the end,
And I know that but can't help but see tumultuous summers,
The flippant and grotesque among you.

I'm not certain,
Real or fake,
I just wish I could rest at night.

I don't have the luxury,
Nor apparent desire,
So I sit in wakeful slumber aside my own crooked pen wet with black ink.