The slow slithering of time makes the mountain
on my chest ever more ponderous. The voice,
from an unseen villain, blares so madly; here,
in the perpetual unlight. Perception has become
a wicked scattering of insipid, enervating color.
And I have vaulted myself from one end of hell to
another. Speaking to all the disfigurements I find
in my soul. Dancing carelessly to the pipe and drum
of whiskey-fueled ravings. I set the world to wrongs.
I would offer my poisoned blood as oblation to the
redemptive ground of the blessèd empyrean—but
my blood is not even worth the sorrow it sustains.
For at the dying of the day, it is with effaced doubt that
I see that salvation is a fruit far too bitter for me.
M.M.
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