The words grow strained and rusty now.
They’re murky and unclear.
Is there no need for writing now?
I’ll read them, if you’d hear.
So much to read, so little time.
The shelves of shelves are full.
We need to know our better selves,
the tug becomes a pull.
The words are circling the drain,
no washing them away.
Our better selves do not exist.
Let’s finish out the day.
Beyond Panic 