Untitled - 11/97
Strange as an angel, my mind contorts.
Words are the bones of my keepers,
lies are their flesh.
The metaphorical inner struggle with demons in laughable.
Hell is yours. You prepared it carefully.
Now eat it whole, gluttonous pig!
And leave me to my own folly.
Gathering stones in a sacrilegious ritual, I create.
My wall has gaps,
no larger than the diameter of worms.
They feed on my brains and I rail against my cold prison,
as my ears bleed with self-pity.
What have I done? What have I done?
I pace and stare at the lock.
The mechanisms of hope intertwined
with the excrement of self-loathing.
This room is heavy, the color breathes lithium.
I spit bile at the door. I weep against it.
And as I slide to the floor, my body a wound, raw and open,
I unclench my fist, and find the key.
Copyright © 2001 Joshua A. Waters