I Hear Them Bleeding Hope
published in The Blue Nib Literary Magazine
Being buried in a crate with just
enough space between
the slats
for damp earth
to trickle in on me
at a tortuously hideous crawl
used to be my first worst way
to die
alone in the loam
while a grimy
suffocation
claimed my breath.
Captured by a blaze
ignited unaware
with every nerve ending
scorched
charred
by a merciless murderer
ashing me utterly
completely reducing me
to my smallest parts
consummation by fire
used to be my second worst
way to die.
My third worst way
to lose myself
used to be
drowning in one
enormous desperate
gasp for oxygen
before submitting
to eternal bloat.
But then I
learned about
these people who are left to
crumble
growing shattery at the mercy of
endless ennui
half wound down
confined to a box within a box within a box
stagnant with
mortality
relinquished
discarded
in the dim.
I hear them bleeding hope
in the Old Folks Rest Home
where we go
on the last Thursday of every month
jilted
extinguished
left to haunt airless hallways
curdled thick by anguish
abandonment
fairly begging for the exit
through motionless
decomposition.
This is my new
worst way
to die.
published in The Blue Nib Literary Magazine
Being buried in a crate with just
enough space between
the slats
for damp earth
to trickle in on me
at a tortuously hideous crawl
used to be my first worst way
to die
alone in the loam
while a grimy
suffocation
claimed my breath.
Captured by a blaze
ignited unaware
with every nerve ending
scorched
charred
by a merciless murderer
ashing me utterly
completely reducing me
to my smallest parts
consummation by fire
used to be my second worst
way to die.
My third worst way
to lose myself
used to be
drowning in one
enormous desperate
gasp for oxygen
before submitting
to eternal bloat.
But then I
learned about
these people who are left to
crumble
growing shattery at the mercy of
endless ennui
half wound down
confined to a box within a box within a box
stagnant with
mortality
relinquished
discarded
in the dim.
I hear them bleeding hope
in the Old Folks Rest Home
where we go
on the last Thursday of every month
jilted
extinguished
left to haunt airless hallways
curdled thick by anguish
abandonment
fairly begging for the exit
through motionless
decomposition.
This is my new
worst way
to die.