Called it a draw
to say the best for the least
like a burn of the veins
or an itch of the brain
Tributes and wards of wrapped hair and dry stone
to the petty gods overhead
clanking bowls and groping for alms
their eyes taken in sick, their tongues twisted on servitude
like a cage with no doors, no windows, no bars
Am I kept in?
A million fingers of dark squirm from the empty.
overtaking me without time to tear my nails or to empty my lungs
the walls are too smooth
too judgemental
too clean
too high
Certainly not to keep them out.
Doubt.
Worming, writhing rebounding second guesses.
A thousand voice chorus of whatifs
neverwas
neverwills
never had
never should
never could.
And on the most well timed ejaculation of sleep.
Fade. Snap.
Awake.
Why?
Doubt.
Right.
... right...
This again.
And again.
And again.
They told me hell was just a word.
An idea.
A punitive invention of guilt and sorrow
of most marked poetry, not irony
but by that logic
real is but a word
a punitive ironclad boot on servile throat
brick breakfasts and gravel desserts
a solid
tangible
real
of...?
My preference would be
not.
grotesque
gruesome
heretical
to some
to others
relase.
Or better yet
sleep.