The world destroys the smallest beautiful thing
each puff of perfume
and spoken word of compliment
will fade alike in submission to the nature of air
which is harsh like a jar of knives
Every period of sanity in which the mind grows
like a flower out of a crack in the cement
is razed with prejudice and leaves only blood
every room whose windows are open
letting the curtains billow out into the middle
was once mud
will someday be
nothing but
rot
ruin
neglect
and mould
My eyes are tired
they feel like stone mountains whose crags nestle hearty windblown trees
(someday they will die)
and my feet are the calloused paws of an animal running from a predator
(someday he will die)
who is there when I wake in the morning
(someday the sun will die)
and spends the night-time catching up to me
(someday I will die)
I cannot bear the cycle of the seasons
I cannot bear to watch the world
destroy
every
tiny
lovely
thing
I cannot build
even a single card house
nor have even a moment’s respite
that I do not fail to appreciate properly
and I know what happens when sleep catches up to me
for even the bliss of unconsciousness becomes another wrecking ball
to yet another flimsily stacked architectural tragedy of responsibility
my arms and legs are not connected to my self like they should be
they are tethered by belts and strings that I must constantly keep taut
and should I lapse I’ll fall apart onto the floor
like a stack of dropped papers
like the mess that I am
Like some
wretched
flowing
puddle
of
goop