La Rev

I could pitch myself
    down these stairs
    as a cry for help.

But what good would that do?
Which god would that appease,
    but the grinning god of death?

Broken bones can heal
    only themselves,—
    not the rest of the body,
    not the bones of other bodies
    (nor bones already in the ground).

If this back is broken,
    twisted with sin
    and my own damn fault,
    I’m gonna have to have
    you rub it,
    before I hit the floor.

Because below the floor
    is dust and screws,
    thousands of screws,
    like rusty rocks in my shoes.
    No one knows what they go to,
    and I don’t want to find out.

They can just sit there,
    planes strangling
    the life out of levers.
    All the screws in the world,
    and everything forgotten.

Arguments that should’ve
    held together;
    notes that never
    reached the addressee.

Things I shouldn’t have done,
    this bed of screws,
    jumping like a static shock
    when I reach for you,
    chirping like crickets,
    untouched by the wind,

and running for dark
when you set your light upon them.






Next Chapter: How Do Things Happen?

This entry posted by J Rand : 7:18 AM