The Devil’s Rope
Standing up on a chair,
I look up at the ceiling.
You breathed air for my lungs,
gave my life meaning.
It's no wonder my heart's a stone in my chest
or that my mind ceases to wander.
We were linked you and I, always together
until the day you swallowed a bottle.
I reach up towards you again,
but instead I find rope.
When I hung it from the ceiling
I can't remember,
My hands foreign machines
operating on a program.
I throw the rope over my head,
enveloping my soul
and then, with every last ounce of strength I can muster, I slide.
Screams fill the air, reverberating through my skull.
Air, a scarcity, forces me to gasp.
And then, silence as I dive into my final moments.
Then, I see you, and as I'm running
I reach out, watching you disappear.
Even in death we cannot find each other.
Up From the Dust
Pain strikes a full on blow
and everyone handles it differently and slow.
The girl in the corner smokes a cigarette
the old school boy puts in his favorite cassette.
The old man takes a swig of whiskey
the young teen stuffs food in her mouth briskly.
Some handle it in ways that can’t be seen,
where they are the only ones who can witness them unclean.
The woman cries into her pillow,
some will confide in a random fellow.
Some will gamble their money away,
the few and rare will ask a stranger to stay.
Pain brings out the worst of us,
creating monsters rising up from the dust.
There will come trees standing freely,
fruit hanging from the branches ideally
And the wind will ruffle through the leaves
people will rejoice in the sound as they perceive
The trees bountiful fruit; apples and pears galore
as children dance around with anything but abhor.
And then a blazing red stream of a man's own doing;
the cries and sounds of the children misconstruing.
Flames dancing, a pulchritudinous yet ghastly appearance
as the fire destroys life in an abounding clearance.
A building was soon built from the ashes and debris,
perhaps a store or a home for you or for me.