Monday, November 11, 2013


The air is still pungent with last evening’s filth,
The debris lines the streets of my town:
This is not where I grew up,
This is not how I lived,
This cannot be what I have become…

The birds are silent – Awestruck? Surprised? Shocked?
The trees have shed their leaves of a sudden:
This is not where I played all my life,
This is not where I thrived,
This cannot be how I die…

This was no storm, no earthquake, no volcanic eruption –
Yet all of the three combined, and more:
This is when I threw up.
This is where I gave up.
This is how I let myself go.

In the middle of a dream,
I screamed;
At the center of the town,
I shrieked:
They didn’t move and I didn’t care –
And so the debris piled up:
Corpse upon corpse –
Each with a neat little circle on the forehead
Or chest, or neck.
All that remained was for an invisible thread –
My desperate hate –
To weave through heads and chests and necks
A garland of death.
There is only silence now
That the last empty shell has fallen by my side –
A hollow metallic clank,
A last puff of dust.

I laugh out loud
At what I have achieved –
There is no one left now
To shame.
I cry out in despair
At what I have done –
There is no one left now
To blame.

* * *

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