Clogged Drain

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.