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
the more of me i see, the less of me i want to be. i feel empty and dreaded and dead inside;
i’m a horn atop a pig’s head;
i still remember dogwood, sitting under my porch;
my name? what is my name?
death and malice behold thee, what pains of being are inflicted upon thee, those creatures in the water and the hills continue to watch thee, the wind in thine ears whistle around thee, seven eyes on a goat’s head stare towards thee, the
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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