Worms or Rain

Tonight I smell white roses again
Drowning in the blood of the moon, the ocean, and the earth
A wild-wind shattering the glass that holds the world together
My eyes
Damned by the words of gaping, foaming mouths
That writhe like worms stuck in the gut of some poor starved animal
Little knots tying themselves tighter with each drop of spittle, left on the ground
As if it were a sacred offering
To some strange god with a million shining faces, a smile, and broken fingers
My mouth
Bound by kisses that leave them bleeding
Wordless and unanswerable in the darkness of some lonely cave
Looking around as if I knew where I was, but the smell is foreign
And the words descriptive, demanding, amusing, and seem to fit me all too well
But the breath I take leaves me choking, argues against me, and leaves me wallowing in a small muddy stream
And with each breath, I consume your perceptions
And question my own

Tonight I feel skin
And that skin is not yours but my own
And the blood I bathe in is not yours but the sweat of what will eventually be revealed
As a failure, or a lie,
Or an unfathomable mountain which reaches up and grabs nothing
With cold white hands that spasm under the pressure
Of an unforgiving thought
Directed against itself
And a mind seeking to comprehend
What it never will grasp

Because the rain becomes the ocean becomes a stream becomes a puddle
And, swallowed by the earth, its every whisper drifts
Or pours down the crumbling mind of man
Who is constantly listening to their voices
And thus is consumed
By himself
Or by the rest of us