Islands

Nothing fits and all hangs down

and billows out, slips off and down

and all the faces previously closed

now snarl and gloat and glare

and things held tight within the skull

grow, restless, homeless, craving light

and news comes thick and fast and hard

and all the things that once held firm

with superstition, or with luck and charm

now wriggle, dangle; all the ferries

making stops at islands stay in port

and hope runs low, misunderstandings breed

and all the daily quiet and maps

begin to pull and yell, and twist at arms

and disappointment paints the day

and things that were relied on start to play

tricks which till today might have meant fun.

But now, right now, mean only harm.

And I, who can’t decide, must choose

how to go on, and on and on.