Days roll on ceaselessly
The sink
remains clogged.
Water gathering
dark and gray
in a mournful bog.
Dishes stacked
precariously
The kitchen
cluttered and
absent of light
The water keeps
on dripping
echoing in the night.
The pipes are all clogged
with oil
and grease and lard.
All the sad wells
have arrived
and buried themselves
in the backyard
A gloomy figure resides
with neither hue nor form
like a misshapen anthill
with a mind that’s
a storm.
The fellow
sinks into a shadow
like a forsaken cargo
ship.
The poor, condemned mannequin,
was not yet ready
for this trip.
The Earth engulfs him
where he stands
his flesh
is eaten off the bone.
Furious sulfur consumes
his hands
and the sun
is overthrown.
Days roll on ceaselessly,
he appears like the
smoke of a cigarette,
bleak, cancerous, dissipating
Playing a game of Russian
Roulette.
Blindfolded, and mute
in a corridor of scorn,
his sight is a river
of doomed headlights.
His eyes are growing thorns.
Time and time
again
he attempts to unclog
the drain.
With every unsuccessful attempt
his heart is filled with pain.
Happiness flies away
on the wings of huge
black flies,
Tomorrow will be another day,
he drops the gun
and sighs.
Perhaps one day
we’ll exit the house,
after withstanding the flood
and follow the
gravel road
that burns like
aching blood
and we\'ll reach the fields
of golden wheat
and our tired legs
take a seat.
Then perhaps
We begin
to sing.
The air is fresh.
The sky renewed.
The sun is bright
like
an angel’s wing.