Figments Of Me

Discerning eyes and cadenced mind
seek nuanced rhythms which define
our simple being; the balanced line
with subtle words in woven chords all
gently poised, ambient and free.

And then the onomatopoeic
crash of cataclysmic events
thunderous, of minds bent blind
and rent askew by uninvited
blood-lust, rendered impotent,
blessed by intense orgasms
intervention – this is no less
a state of being.

Though
June’s skies are wondrous
the clouds wandering
through my mind
seem less ardent
than the other season’s
celestial events.

Here in the basement’s
shit-drained reek the foul breath
of stained and broken anger leaks
from open wounds; malevolent eyes
seek weakness, the knife flashes
briefly, slices life.

You see nothing in the eyes
or the hunched shoulders or the
beer can crushed in gnarled hands
but you feel the aching despair.
The bleakness stands succinct
and separate, spanning the
broken years of this
scarred boy-man.

These memories are
all figments of me.
© 18 March 2007, I.D. Carswell