Waiting for the Universe to Conspire

2 a.m. on the nineteenth night, resigning to hope in a hopeful resign;
Tomorrow is another day to season our taste
We’ll train to surrender, and in monotone feign wonder,
And queue up to be petted as sub-human.
An invite to stand barefoot and to survive– on the same tiled floor.

Re-reading the same passage, the words losing their wonder.
The nightly howls, now quieter, hearts grown colder.
Tomorrow is another day, as I started to believe.
Hold fast, mind steadfast, are you wavering? Drink! Bottom’s up.
The silence between the pillows from an unforgiving past.

Tomorrow is another day, with no mistakes to its name.
Yet.
So we take it by its innocence and to the slaughterhouse deceive it.
We grieve and we break, and defeated by rage.
We sell our own fairy tales for a hospice stay,
So, I write and you erase, and then I paint your wounds red.

Now we’re old before our times, gray strands, symptoms of demise.
Calling a truce before time runs out, at 2 a.m. on the twentieth night,
Sediments of a chronicle and a lonesome fly on the brim,
A streaming mug, from waiting up, turn into ice from within
And I’m waiting for the universe to conspire.

Art: Succumb, digital painting, 2018 by u/lifeofbert

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