This life
Can be boiled down
To a few out of body experiences
In my boxers
In my bed
With my dog
Laying on the floor
Between the clean pile
And the ***** one
It can be traced
By borrowed books
And cigar butts
And little bits of broken glass
That I still find on the back porch
It can be measured
If you hold it up to the light
And see how much shines through,
Leaking out the other side
Like the drip of a faucet
To be carried away
By the river
That takes all life
Eventually
I found myself
Washed up in the dark
On the cool wet stone
Of the shore.
I couldn’t see the river
But the current rumbled
With the voice of the ender
Reaching out to pull me in.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 2:23 PM UTC
This life
Can be boiled down
To a few out of body experiences
In my boxers
In my bed
With my dog
Laying on the floor
Between the clean pile
And the ***** one
It can be traced
By borrowed books
And cigar butts
And little bits of broken glass
That I still find on the back porch
It can be measured
If you hold it up to the light
And see how much shines through,
Leaking out the other side
Like the drip of a faucet
To be carried away
By the river
That takes all life
Eventually
I found myself
Washed up in the dark
On the cool wet stone
Of the shore.
I couldn’t see the river
But the current rumbled
With the voice of the ender
Reaching out to pull me in.
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