anguish lays on the mantel of creativeness
like an apprehensive hangman hesitating
to judge the one who is being killed...
treachery lays at the foot of the mountain
that guards the inner passage of the soul
standing in the ready to be hanged...
rain lays on the ground in puddles in front
of the thoughts that hide under the fall
leaves in the hopes of not deciding who
dies and who lives in the senseless
mindlessness of a dream that has no
reasons to surface this night or beyond;
we care for our dead in this town and
like all towns of our intellect, we cremate
what we cannot bury under the soggy land
that has failed perk tests for years even
though no records were being kept then;
we hunger for enlightenment and
despise the reckless of religious fervor
that creeps around in graveyards
looking for bodies that survived the rope
and recording their glimpses into the
life ever after that did not arrive for them;
we slip and slide in the rain as we march
our ideas to the factory of abandonment
and reconciliation, reworking the words
that were not as created as believed
while others sit in lounge chairs, holding
their veins open for infusions of editing
that is never performed in the rain, but
has always been desired by those who
can only swim a few strokes at a time;
we are the widow makers of the world
is imprinted upon their foreheads as if
it were some badge of honor or at the
very least would catch the attention
of the ghost writer brought in at the
last moment to correct the ending...
28 September 2020
