Nightmare’s Reason


Nocturnal aperture agape,
trashcan lid arches limply,
its hinged spine
like that of partial paragraphs,
clinging,
broken,
yet refusing to let go.

How gauze-like
the yellowed reflection,
staring back from shattered temper-enhanced mirror,
gripping also,
defying decayed adhesive,
refusing, like me, to accept
the dry erosion of beached-anchor purpose.

I gaze deep into the opened sanctuary,
a place where discarded failure finds solace.

Glaring back at me,
effort continues its vigil,
reminding the writer only of produced throwaway.

Open-mouthed gluttony grins patiently.

Crumpled pages,
like meatless bones,
delusion’s fantasy feast,
such remains mere table scraps,
willing to appease,
if not satiate.

Shrill words retch forth
pleading to be more than just a lexicon-mashup,
finding but air void of oxygen,
fall leaden, but empty, like that of
Condors and sparrows without wings.

Unfinished manuscripts cry real tears to live,
to be,
to receive as created epiphanies
for readers to embrace.

The involuntary voice shouts back at my muse
rides triumphantly atop the wrinkled failure of drunken words,
falls seductively past the gaping mouth,
sliding between the sheets of other near misses,
continuing the downward vortex,
sending shivers of nourishment to
one’s abyss of failure,
where no one
patiently waits,
abides,
understands,
smiles. 

Sunrise awakens.

A writer’s “Is-ness” opens its eyes.

The desk.

The pen.

The paper.

All there was,
is,
will be,
seems such a gift...

Once again…

He will try.

doG. Why so much a struggle?