He writhes and tries beneath
the watchful oaken knots bleeding
down the panderous wooden doors
They silently listen to his silence, but
react only to the tumult of enamourous
heartbeats behind their truer sides
Imperfections in the window panes
warp his warped view of the painful
imperfections he’s been shown
Dissecting his reflection, and others
he sees through, his features don’t
stand out amidst the banal amalgam
Staring stolen daggers into his wasted
words, reloaded from the broken back
he no longer turns, leaned on too often
Wooden man swallowing the knots in
his throat, deafened to the rapturous
fracas chiding his sensibilities
Insincere gratitudes, obligatory read
throughs, misplaced attitudes to fill
their waiting pews
Alas, he left no daggers for himself,
so must step into the fray, and release
anew more wasted words
art: Circumcision by Jackson Pollock
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