Notes About The Poem
Sometimes we have thoughts that are a murky reminder of our past. This poem hopes to engage those thoughts.
The Mud
Mud flows, it oozes, down the wall,
Leaving each moment of pain,
Leaving thoughts of a raging mad,
The memories of demented insane
Over each perfect white tile,
A million small white tiles that gleam,
Holding the truth that was this room,
The truth in each little white scream
And the noise in those thoughts,
Scatters silence to pieces on the floor,
The noise that destroyed the joy of,
What could have been before
The hurt that occurred, the muck, the pain,
The ache, burn, and crush of obscene,
It shatters, every day, the perfect idea,
The idea that we should have been.
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