Not the worst, but bad, and when it’s just bad, that’s the worst.
You feel it in the bones that are suddenly making noises. You see it in the swirling mist, that fetters slobs of hurt in areas that respond before you know.
The echoes of revisited pain deposit uprooted textures of defense. It wears out from accumulated neglect that only haunt when it’s bad.
You’ve felt this way before, and the worst of it was how the smiles and laughs were loud enough to vouch for presence.
You don’t feel like this when you cry into the face of the sun, with cruel rays beautifully highlighting crimson dust, evaporating into rings of soberness.
You can twirl into streets of colored leaves in the brisk of hopefulness, and still fall into dustiness from halted tomorrows.
We can burn alive as we evacuate emergencies of yesteryears, that begin the chase before we rise to curse the morn.
Bad days used to be easy ones. Cuddle into a ball of mush and take in mindless tributes to the lost ones who aren’t found until examination verify locations.
Valiantly trudging through the murkiness of life’s deceit with borrowed lantern of shadowy angles, prompting the grieving for what never was, is the reflection of timelessness in the hour of reckoning.
It was a bad day, and certainly not the baddest of the lot.
But those are always the absolute worst.