Turning Point

the alarm sounds shattering the surrounding silence, bringing about an end to the disillusionment of evening. clothing coalesces with flesh, coating the sensitivity of ache, like the projection of the day's events drape over a tired brain. unaware of the legs that hold up the battle torn torso, floating on clouds of dense morning fog, finding no solace in weightlessness but rather confusion over wingless flight. mantras make moving able, the repetition of phrases following the soon-to-be repetitive day: change is the only constant one says, and the chorus joins in, change is the only constant, we all begin to say.