Crone

Nothing savored Nothing cherished Chewing wood, spitting silk Hating every creeping moment till darkness lowers and laps at my toes Blessed darkness gives me a cave where I may retreat from all hateful, glossy life - oblivion with eyes wide open Monumental sorrow grinds my guts to dust Hopelessness, a perversion that licks my ear and whispers obscene melodies. An ache to take out the tools used to mark my hatred on myself Hope is a lie believed by fools and sinners That baked desert called my mind spits dust on dreams. Trapped by iron bars bleeding despair my face is a pale moon of desolation peering out on savage scenes of normalcy. Fingers tremble on the keyboard longing to smash its plastic against my head. Some say how sweet and gentle I am I can’t wait to escape and laugh at their gullibility. . . had I an ax I would chop off my haunting countenance and hide the pieces in brown paper bags flung into back yards around the town Am I sweet and gentle as they say but refuse the treacle of the words Or have I acted upon the stage so well I have become what I loathe to be