an anguished poem


Back in the slanting, tilted days

we tore great chunks off each other

and then crept slowly apart, not looking back,

like sidling crabs over cooling sands

and wrote with bloody fingers on the walls

words that still drip down to acid puddles.

I wished I could cry in my sleep

and wait for the dreams to come,

but I’m none of those thousand phantoms;

not a prisoner in love with his jailer

nor a blind man married to an angel;

just a broken rung on the ladder,

a handful of scattered shells and driftwood

when the teasing tide recedes,

like I’m stuck by a hotel pool

two steps from the bar and just a drink from Hell.

Published in The Blue Nib

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