in the consequence of creation,
it’s a tuesday morning in my bed.
the windows shield cold weather
slights, curtains hung-tight-and-shut.
in my head,
this is a consequence of mayhem.
that the lesser powers crash against
each other, wielding the sort of chaos
that creates its own pretense.
in my bed, it’s a tuesday morning
like the tuesday morning before,
ages quietly passed like the breaching
of waves on a crag-lined shore.
in the consequence of creation,
starlight is buried in the dust
of our bones. like the tired,
creaking bone-dead stardust
i am a tired, creaking bone-wrenched
nerve-wracked star, in the consequence
of its conception.
it’s a tuesday morning like the ones
before. curtains shield the consequence
of a cold, unfolding youth collapsed inwards
of its quick, unyielding consciousness.
Grace Anderson is a freshman at University of Minnesota, Morris. They write to conceptualize interpretations of the world and their place in it, and can otherwise be found delving into fiber arts and reading fiction.