This fragile foliage, fulgent in hue,
Glowing a sun-burnt orange,
Lies dead and departed among
The ashes of my cigarette.
This dried husk harks the dusk
That drives beasts, large and least,
To constellate, earth-bound,
In hibernacula
Bound in earth, underground.
This deep dusk, darkening, harkens
a blue gloaming on sun-spun earth,
Wherein welkin-borne cat’s paws
Swipe and scratch like tigers’ claws.
Thrown afloat from my skiff,
I drift upon flotsam flung
Far into the foaming sea.
I paddle my legs homeward,
A haven from my voyage,
Toward my true Penelope.
Sunken eyes & slumped shoulders
& unsteady gaits
traipse through the sanitarium.
Addicts, depressives, beaters,
abusers, schizos, crackheads,
meth-heads, alcoholics all
roam these commercially-carpeted halls.
Tiny song birds impregnate the black sky;
Numbering more than the white points of light,
Dancing in the frozen vespertine air,
They fly carelessly through the windy night,
Talking to one another in bird-song.
Their song, such fragrant music, purple-dyed
by the darkness, carries away my cares,
Mem’ries of days failed and forever gone
might have filled my bloated heart, but no more.
I transmute day to day to day to day,
As do the birds, but not their timeless song.
It won’t change, the same it will ever stay.
“You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me, Thomas. I hope I never see you again, and if I do see you again, I will stab my eyes out with my fingernails.”