Memorirs of the Brother

The days run mad
scattered and tattered
by soft echoing sighs
that contemplates
reasons of inconsistency
simmering above the brow
till they boil down
straight into a pattern
that's only recongnized
throughout tomorrow.

The days ran dry
into a fluorescent haze
that fades in
but not out
slowly encouraging
each of their closing denials
before circling the spoon.

Wait, what day is it?