Blood Red Cotton Wool Sunset

I don’t want to be here anymore.

That’s the simple, dangerous truth of it.

I seek an abnormal singularity of somewhere safe,

an empty silent place that equals the vacuum

of a soul without content.

I keep these things to myself so nobody has to hear.

Better left said, a valve will open wide, let the pressure leave

to find its symmetry and balance action against inertia.

I watch the billowing above as motivation melts away.

A dismal cloud dissipates as empty threat

Staining the already blood-red cotton wool sunset.