Not too many horizons
when you live in a small home
with small windows
and thick blinders
and only face the smoky ceiling
as you sit sprawled on the bed,
bottle in hand, more empty than full,
cigarette between fingers, more ashes
than light.
Work starts only the day after tomorrow
so there is nothing to do now
just like there won't be much to do then

He's not alone in this,
this young man
He thinks now of past lovers
and it's like God delivers a gift all of a sudden

There's a knock on the door
he stands
dizzy
about to *****
and finds his way to the door
opens

Well.
Hell.
It's been... What, a year already?
The woman holds a child in her arms
and tells him it's his.
The same ***** who ran away with the little
money he had about a year ago,
just after they've done it and got wasted on the
same bed he rose from.

Thank you, God
It's, you know, just what the
hell I needed.

.
Blush the sky with teardrop rips,
let the blood flow free
to spill 'pon the cheeks and fall,
creating puddles of coy crimson.
A mind slowly disintegrates,
no-one tries to halt the decline
and it washes away reason,
the victim unable to resist submission.
Corpuscular clashes with synaptic
and the result transforms tragedy
from the root of all sadness
into an icon of blind worship.
The teardrops freeze on a blank face
that masks a venomous enemy
wrapped in a Hood of poison
that swallows the blushing sky.
A cage of pitch black threads
patiently studies the inner pendulum,
the tick tock of search and destroy,
time weaving its panic dark webs.
Psychotic anxiety in the waiting room
as horses dance on candle flames,
the Knight checkmates his own King,
the pawn is an easily taken prisoner.
The coy puddles of crimson burst,
shattering the mask to reveal another,
a shadow-hand coils its claim,
and the journey begins, cometh the Hood.



© Pagan Paul (11/08/19)