.
Left alone, the abyss of failure
closes in,
for days it seems like weeks,
though months are now reduced to counted minutes
Coffin’d stances form the stoic barricade
which surrounds my hope
in picket lines of untrained defectors
I claw at its lid,
thrashing mightily to my sides
as collections of miseries
flood this chamber of my coerced sleep
“I am here!” I shout,
hearing my words
echo in distance dance halls
two stepping on my memory,
spitting above where I lie
Here - a relevant term
as columns of disbelief carve themselves
from my mind.
Forgotten, left for dead,
erased from the blackboard
by the firm swishing hand of fate…
reduced to dust (I don’t feel like dust)
Blisters climb my arms in search of answers,
none can be found here,
where ever the hell here is… yet, I am here
My brain circles the skyline in desperation,
the gutters below cry, trash strewn as if it were me
sleeping off my drunk
in that Frigidaire box
“I am me!” I cry to the empty corridors of someone else’s life
One I’d rather be
Or one who would rather not?
…….
Someday my file may lie open,
atop a desk,
a partitioned sanctuary of hidden ethics,
beneath the crumpled Cheeto’s bag,
now layered with stale orange crumbs
maybe someone will see
maybe someone will wonder
or maybe still forgotten
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 8:15 AM UTC
.
Left alone, the abyss of failure
closes in,
for days it seems like weeks,
though months are now reduced to counted minutes
Coffin’d stances form the stoic barricade
which surrounds my hope
in picket lines of untrained defectors
I claw at its lid,
thrashing mightily to my sides
as collections of miseries
flood this chamber of my coerced sleep
“I am here!” I shout,
hearing my words
echo in distance dance halls
two stepping on my memory,
spitting above where I lie
Here - a relevant term
as columns of disbelief carve themselves
from my mind.
Forgotten, left for dead,
erased from the blackboard
by the firm swishing hand of fate…
reduced to dust (I don’t feel like dust)
Blisters climb my arms in search of answers,
none can be found here,
where ever the hell here is… yet, I am here
My brain circles the skyline in desperation,
the gutters below cry, trash strewn as if it were me
sleeping off my drunk
in that Frigidaire box
“I am me!” I cry to the empty corridors of someone else’s life
One I’d rather be
Or one who would rather not?
…….
Someday my file may lie open,
atop a desk,
a partitioned sanctuary of hidden ethics,
beneath the crumpled Cheeto’s bag,
now layered with stale orange crumbs
maybe someone will see
maybe someone will wonder
or maybe still forgotten
