.

i hate the way things turn around, the moment that they've left;
the wind so hot and warm one day, then frigid and unkempt.
i keep waiting for signs of permanence, a consistent elevation;
but all that comes is more groundwork, an attempt at real creation.
keep building me over and over again, renew, start from scratch-
i'm alluring, absorbing, tractable: then receding back.
but when will the wind stay steady? or will it split my spine?
i'm bending and turning and spinning, sinking with due time.
but just as my perseverance is at an end, my protest slammed shut,
i'm thrown against reality, and all my luck.
my obligations don't let me leave, my mind won't let me stay-
i hate how things turn so black and white, all i want is a little piece of gray.