Crippled soul.
Crippled hole.
Everything sifts,
Slips
Backward
Has settled in.
Just think the bottle
Was where you started,
Where you began.
The needle
is where you will end.
Crippled soul.
Crippled hole.
Everything drifts,
Slips
Faster downwards.
The debt is in.
All the long years
You've put in
Have come to
A savings of lies
and annihilation.
There'll be no more reparations.
These are your wages.
You are a man
For the ages.
An inheritance
Of blown sand and wind,
An inheritance
Of uselessness,
Of self-sin.
Time is spent.
Time is suffocating, closing in.
Oh, the wounds,
Much deeper...
Oh, the price,
Much, much steeper
When we do them
to ourselves.
Would I join you
here in your private hell?
Dutiful daughter,
I might as well.
Do you write everyday? Keeping the words all to yourself? An internal combustible conversation.
Clearing away the barbs of grief, all the shellac that maligns you, like a painful colon
cleanse?
Meloo / Tilt-A-World Melissa A Howells
Copyright September 2005 All Rights Reserved by Author
All Rights Reserved