April Fox

Some days are softer than others. 
Some are cold, some days
the sweat drips down the sides while they
hunt you down,
pungent and sharp,
slicing through the sleep that held you 
turbulent and bleak. 

Some days creep and steal you out to the seas of 
sour discontent
tide sliding in and filling up the holes
of memory, toppling the fragile castles
built of sand and longing and broken pieces of the things
that used to be alive. 

Some days are spun like Friday night
all flashing lights and traffic
sound that never seems to stop
a frantic carousel of creatures chasing
nothing they can catch, feet stuck still and still
still spinning. 

Some days are shackled to each other, squeezing life
out of each other, breathing
spite into the spaces left by
all the things the hours tried to
steal from each other
Some are tangled and the only way to free them
is to kill them all at once but some are
softer days than others

Some are hazy at the edges, blurred into a cloudy
melody of calm and chaos
held to all the other 
softer days by reins as loose as life's last breath.