6 weeks

6 weeks
passed as recklessly 
as one would have 
thought them to have
spent it.
righting all the 
writings they have 
oozed their life into 
nothing more than to
live lives that would
be stories
to be murmured into 
someone else’s ears and 
jotted down in short verses. 

6 weeks
that ended in 
exhaustion and ache 
that another looking at them
would address as an
“i told you so” now
but they told themselves 
and each other so too and
that’s the thing with
these people whose fingers 
are tempted to romanticise 
even cigarette smoke. 

they simply do not care?

on day 42 of the
6th week 
they went down to the beach
waded in so deep 
foolishly (?)
they drown and flail
but refuse hands of others 
just smile stupidly and then
let the water cover them over
warranting the question
“why do they do it even?”

it’s something that they who

tempt fate by asking
for muses on bent knees
pouring sacrificial offerings of ink
slaying trees to make paper 
that they then furiously crush 

simply can’t answer
even at the end of 6 weeks.