Everything is cold to the touch
I am not me
Save for the remnance of imagination
Which imagines me into being
On yet another cold morning.
The clock threatens to strike the working hour,
Dripping in the pavement
As I exhale the humidity of my mouth
Like a strawberry being stabbed.
Treading miserably towards my car,
Where the wind drives
Under the influence,
I pass by a group of pigeons,
Fighting over a piece of bread.
The piece of bread is God;
God is a piece of bread rotting in the street.
Pigeons of different colours
Fight over the biggest scraps.
Does the scrap sustain them?
Or do they want it to deprive the others?
The car seemed so far away
The hunger for an end pushed me back
Like sleeping lips raped
I feel I cannot speak
For it would be an insult to the sacred routine
Written for us all
In our wombs
With silent ink.
I found my work by accident
The injuries sustained then suffice now.
Why can't I see what John The Revelator saw?
Rhyming numbers and dead whores
So as to be driven mad.
And be barely kept alive
By insanity.
Mornings without end
My procession.
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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there was an eerieness to this piece...but it held my intrest even more because of it....there are so many favorite lines.....some with a little shadow of dark looming......kinda like read with caution.....never mind...it's hard to say what im feeling....ok in simple understandable words..hehe.....This was a really great poem!.......it's very original..and this will leave the reader...with quite the impression for some time...................I hope my comment was ok....haha..
-Lu
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Amazing words! Great write!
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So vividly written.
Sounds like the worst day ever someone could have.
Well done and beautifully captured!
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wow what an eerie piece we have here! It sounds so real life esque yet not everyday can be like this; just six days of them lol. Anyway this was an interesting piece here. Great job
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oh that sounds so hopeless! but i like it very much!
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That's Monday!
Oh, man! either this was a bad Monday or you really hate your job -
Great write - especially liked: "I feel I cannot speak
For it would be an insult to the sacred routine"
I am reminded, (once again) to stay out of the rut of life...
Thanks
S23
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its sounds very dark
and spooky
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