Anywhere but Here

The clocks are too loud.

The floor slants.

I feel, at the back of my mind, a whining pressure.

There are places I must be, that need attention, that need completion

that cloud my thoughts like bloodlust, fogging up everything I’m trying to do.

My attention cuts sharp

through the pedantic drone of agenda,

and by the time it reaches the front of my mind, it is a wild thing,

torn and raggedy, stripped by the wailing song

of ‘Anywhere but here.’

I’ve forgotten.

I race to heed its call, to be the completionist,

To scrape the tissue of these thoughts from the scabby lesions of my brain,

To clean, to scourge, to correct

Endlessly

There is never a moment left empty, when you’re in transit.

There is no rest, so long as it can be better.

Where I’m going, there is no destination

Only the warp and weald

of an untempered path

that will not survive my passage.