there is always a choice i thought.
but then some things sneak up on you
lying here i notice
the clouds are moving the wrong way
like the melancholia that moves in
for days at a time.
and the heart of me,
aquainted with the night and this mind
that never stops
-perhaps a flaw of inhaling too deep
and the power of becoming-
wishes you could read,
the invisible ink that paints
this ever-contradictory portrait