I have much to process and it's coming out as woe.

Bouts of staring into space distract from productivity.

A bathroom needs cleaning but there's some space I have yet to zone in on.

Turn it inside out and view it upside down.
It's still slathered and saturated.
It's still grief.
But it's not the other.
It's not what we wish to have none of.

Transforming into water
and pouring over stone.
Flowing into fire
and breathing in the ash.

Expelling all the sorrow
and foraging for hope.

Pandora was a mere mortal.