A Pome a Day for a Year

Fifty two minutes times two, and
I am screaming.
The sounds are locked inside, gnawing
at my brain as I squint outwards
sunlight doing it’s best to keep me
contained, but the cries swirl
and grow and batter and pummel
and I am only just barely hanging on.

A lot of time to think, to muse,
to contemplate the years past
and the less to come.
Where I stand, this plinth of experience,
is gilded with material
I do not recognise, but my finger prints
are coating its porous hide.

Offshore I sit, this low sun
an angry red ball of time and space,
Angels sing out and I push through;
their choral chants fall on my deaf ears
and I meet the sun in emotion,
why do I feel this?
Why am I? What is the reason for?
I am lost, like usual, and the back of
mind graciously bows, accepting
that like normal I shall scoop these
needles of thoughts,
and dump them there another day.