My days
are mostly wasted
by thoughts of moments
that have happened
and also
those that have not.
My mind
is mostly cluttered
with fantasies and heaven,
red skies and smiling magpies,
murdered by
the loneliness of hell.
If memory is mostly
futile, the future
must be so
If everything is fleeting,
I must be running barefoot,
naked in the snow:
Toward what?
Or who?
Or me?
Or why?
Why
does every angle
seem cavernous
and sharp?
Why
does every body
fat with levity
birth such
a jagged mind?
The Thing must
fill its stomach
as much as its head,
we are gluttons
for ourselves,
we might as well be called
cannibals
instead.