Cool air, disturbing hair, the
breathy whisper of convenience;
rocking in safety and boredom;
shackled to obedience and fear
A foot brushes carpet in the darkness
of a screaming mouth; hoarding silence
as gold; looking through the soul to
only desolation outside
Hunting for treasures in the dung of
afterthought; finding, as expected,
only dung; the more things stay the
same, the more they stay the same
Given time, give it back, too much
nothing to fill; an ebb and flow of
nonsense and rebuttal, with no
words to suffocate the emptiness
Dilated pupils, open yet unlearned,
capturing dust in the moonbeam
befriended; its life turns to shadow
in an instant, free and purposeful
Pain, a reminder of life, and the reverse;
self-distinction an impossibility; bland
and abrasive, like a stucco finish on the
inner cheek
Hear the steady hum, without a tune,
from the fan overhead; dangling brass
metronomes hypnotize and familiarize,
orchestrating
The rocking chair, in screaming boredom;
with breezy chill air, disturbing hair;
as disturbing thoughts surface to
suffocate the silence
art: Triptych August 1972 by Francis Bacon
