There is a dagger in my chest

The hilt of which protrudes from

Too many sleepless nights, blade

Serrated by spinning shadows tossed

From the ceiling fan overhead, dancing

Yes dancing in rhythm to flickering

Candlelight that ebbs in a widening

Pool of wax that is somehow akin

To a dying mans eye just before his

Essence finally winks out.

The dagger cuts a little deeper with every

Inhalation that I take, not of breath

But of memory, carving out my past

As it twitches and screams, the poisoned

Soil from which it grew oozing with

Redundancy in the wake of that rancid

Fruit, a blighted harvest that thrives by

Feeding on the one who allowed it to

Spread its roots, there, beneath the gaze

Of that dying mans eye.

END

“Serrated Nights”