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. never thought to see you like this..
How
empty time slows and narrows.
I pass by mirrors with painted angels on them scribbled prayers 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.
Copyright © Nathan Martin | Year Posted 2017
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