What makes the mind wander so
There is a day
Not unlike any other which still holds power
The day is not different for anyone else
It is for me
The day is a hole
A tear in the fabric
The cloth which would be celebrated
Is chewed full of holes
Chewed by man and beast alike
Time has not been kind
Neither have the weavers
The pattern is dark, foreboding, and hides the image of the beast
The colors are black
Pitchy and dark with no variation
Just empty
Black voids
Like the space in the photos of black holes
What is in the center that draws in all matter
What is it that makes this black
Even to the electronic eye
Even to the soul
Even to the being
Standing in the center of the space