LukeMorrison

The Glasswasher

Round, round, round in my mind.

To torrential outpour and sharp, splintered shards,

blood is always a welcome relief -

away from the laborious dropping of guards.

 

The same one one hundred times is clean,

not from diligence or meticulous work;

a fast hand is required to hold back the tide,

as each one appears on a tray there to lurk.

 

I hate it when their shines reflect in my eyes,

like watchers imploring my shallow affection,

hoping to be returned to their homes,

and dreading the outcome of not passing inspection.

 

They're brought to me by both friend and foe,

not that I do confide in them this much.

I dodge their inquisitions with my cigarette,

and thusly their voices aren't heard as such.

 

Is this the modality of life that we strive?

In a back room away from the bright, vibrant light?

We serve those who served us and think not at all

that we all are to meet the same earthly plight.

 

Yet the green of the people keeps me a'washing.

Since I'm not a man who has ever changed.

I am the lowest of the low that there is.

If I wash their glasses, I must be deranged.

 

 

 



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