Strawberries
that tumble off grocery stands
of dusty wood-colored plastic
wiped clean with rank rags dripping ***** water
and a hint of bleach
to **** germs.
Covered in dripping red
gooey sweet syrup
that resembles sour sauce
of lo mein Chinese restaurants,
but encapsulates all feelings
to nerve tinglings
and lick chops to swallow drowned.
Atop a table
tuckered in the corner
next to borrowed chairs
that mismatch from three to one
and darkened grain and pale wheat
with a broken leg
that will one day topple to the floor.
Retching from inhalation
as breath stops short
lungs rejecting air
from the path of recycle-ment
like tossing used paper bowls
into foundations for isla de debris.
Enlightenment of the general mood
from stumbled laughter
into an inception loop
of spinning tops and trading card games
into a never ending bubble stream
like a train braking
and go to rest.
Dead like a corpse
as in sleep like the departed
where nothing can be bothered
except the alarm for tomorrow.
Because I am scared,
for the shadow of despair,
that will rise as a lion's roar,
to claim the title "king,"
and rain down sorrow,
before the lamed warrior can raise a piece,
or a scholar a pipe,
to ward away evil,
and purify with ceremonious smoke.
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