On the other side of burnout
there is rest, there is a place
where even my incompetence
has a bucket it fits into.
As I compost all my bitterness,
my misplaced hopefulness,
my misspent hours,
I watch the steam
rise up from what’s rotten.
A wisp of a moist gray ghost,
a sign of moving on,
a sweet portent
there and gone.
What’s done
is done.
marniere 