Torture

I am not a tortured soul.

I do not rage against the very heavens.
Perhaps I grumble and mutter,
And speak ill whispers
And sometimes wish
That the very stars would fall,
But I do not rage.

My bones do not heave
My very flesh
And press forlorn sighs
From my lungs,
Except sometimes
In the morning,
Or at night
Or, occasionally,
Throughout the day.
Just not every day.

Nor do I ever long to die
Except for once in a long while
When it seems that,
With every single step
Into this ceaseless, heartless wind
I am winding my way around
The coils of a noose.

I am happy,
Mostly happy,
Almost certainly happy,
Except when I’m not.

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Photo courtesy of Sandeep Thukral