i sit and stare out the window
stare out the window at the brown dead grass
the dirty snow melting into muddy slush
the mud that is criss-crossed and destroyed with ruts and tire tracks
the empty field, still as a body in a coffin
and the darkening blue sky beneath the pale sun that sets above the mountains
and i think about endings
my leg is a rotting log and i am stumps
i am stumps which are crawling with the little maggots
the little white slimy maggots which are crawling under my skin
there are swans all around me
but they are blind
or i am invisible
and i don't know which
i once found myself at a crossroads
i searched within myself
and like they love to say
i took the road less traveled
now i am at the end of the road
Comments
There's a forlorn bent to this piece, for sure, but that's because you've done such an excellent job of establishing the desolate setting and that melancholy, in-between time of year. Each of your observations may be brief, but they pack a punch.
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