Demons, little monkeys, scurrying to my shoulders, “slipping, slipping” they giggle in my ear. They pinch my skin, tug at my hair.
Where’s your flo Chlo? Like a slurry of sludge, I’m sticking. Trees whisper in the wind, “promises, promises, what happened to the promises?”
No longer making, creating, just sating. But it’s a good day, a bad day, a roast day, a sad day.
Change the gear, pick up the pace. It’s not too late, gather your arsenal, lay it all out. Straighten your britches, smooth out the creases and gently, soothe the soul.