Unfinished Nightmare
by Odin Roark

Mouth agape,
trashcan lid arches limply,
its hinged spine
like that of partial paragraphs,
clinging,
mere fragments,
yet refusing to let go.

How gauze-like
the yellowed reflection,
staring back from shattered mood-enhanced mirror,
clenching also,
defying decayed adhesive,
refusing to accept the dry erosion
of once anchored purpose.

I gaze
deep into the opened sanctuary,
a place where discarded failure finds solace,
yet glaring back at me
it continues its vigil,
reminding the writer has produced but throwaway.

Open-mouthed gluttony
grins patiently,
crumpled pages like meatless bones,
a fantasy feast,
mere table scraps
dropping willingly to appease,
if not satiate.

Shrill words retch forth,
pleading to be more than just letters in free-fall,
finding air void of oxygen,
afloat, but empty
like condors without wings.

Unfinished manuscripts cry to live,
to know,
to hear,
discovered epiphanies
ready to read and embrace.

The involuntary voice shouts back at my muse,
rides triumphantly atop the crumpled defeat of drunken words,
falling 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 defeat,
where no one
patiently waits,
abides,
understands,
dares to smile.