A NEW NORMAL

Like emberly slag that paints a trail of dancing sparks;

My pain is wrought in the molten forge of transformation.

As it shoots from the hammer strike with force;

Searing hot, my day’s hours vanish in trails of smoke and char.
 

The cool of night does not refresh.

No end to suffering will the Moon dispense.

Rather, with a stinging twinge of loneliness

Do the forever hours emptily stretch.