Dogged perception,
Cloud-filled brain.
Ideas dancing on reality’s edge.
Leathery tongue of Fate
at the nape of my neck
Whispering wisdom from
many moons spent.
Time elapsed
Heart askew
Serendipitous passion aflame.
Mirror image of past meeting present,
A deep, filthy well of existence.
iPhone Notepad July 30
Nothing is what it seems.
Strength and energy … seep from my body every moment—a pinpricked balloon with a slow air leak.
Misery at my doorstep, in bottomless blacks and ghastly grays.
Austere stone walls. Dank earthen air.
Only the faint whiff of dying thistles—bundles strung along the walls like pity—as though they could make up for the secrets or the horrors.
I’ve bled out truth, anguish, art. And if there is nothing else, my words here will be evidence of my demise.
Not a poet’s dream but morbidly poetic.
The only closure left for those I leave behind.