The Average Lifespan of a Dream

The stage is bare.

I'm swimming through

a black sky of fear,

surrounded by stale, dusty air.

You know it’s going

to be one of those days

when the third day of the week

surrenders to the fourth,

trying to draw air out

of a room full of broken people

making their own geography.

I know how that sounds—

but it’s true.   

Source:

A remixed poem composed from a series of first sentences of novels. 


Note: 

First published in issue 108 of Right Hand Pointing.