The Hands That Failed

Square sensible head. held together by a thread.. Gypsy moths in the corner have been there far too long I saw one bearing Saint Peter's prayers the other day. But he was burnt like the rest. The clock's hands have never motioned less and the sun has ran out reasons to be kind. the sun hurts my eyes. maybe by coincidence the sun hurts my liver.. The waxing sun fills my kidneys with a glorious crimson candescence. ohh well its just blood anyways.. I must quit looking for beauty here--return to the hospital rationa corners. still lines lengthening down the hall seem so cold. so I Cleanse my skin in the bathroom and flush water down my esophagus. I must bury in my throat forever the terrible sayings of the gypsy moth. His yellow cocoon is hollow, the weaves of fiber have scratched his eyes. Never thought we would be here now. How empty time slows and narrows. I pass by mirrors with painted angels on them scribbled saying in cursive seem so disgusting. Alcoholics remain anonymous and offer repetitive prayers that fit on tiny mirrors. I reflect narrower as the day passes my fingers grow so thin. My hands fail, the clock on the wall fails.