Much earlier than my last couple tries, here’s my attempt at a poem using the words above, a prompt from the wonderful site, The Sunday Whirl.
The pressure accumulates of everything that
has ever happened to you or might.
It climbs into bed with you every night, whispering
and smoking. It’s scary, that voice, as it builds its case:
Calamity upon risk, impossible change, disaster. It builds
from an ember to a slow fire that can smolder all night
If fed. This slow, hypnotic voice coaxes, says
Attend to this jumbled order of what could be,
what never was, and what there is no more time to Accomplish.
Oh that voice will keep you company all night long,
If you listen.