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