“Want” is, liar:
to crack your hollow skull,
to groove blade over your pruned flesh,
But I find this flame to be doused by matter that has numbed such thoughts of:
to tear that stupid ring from your stupid face,
Drown you in lethe
I try to dam the darkness and the debase
but they muddy fairer thoughts
like footprints left by wet shoes on white tiles in an entrance hall somewhere,
Hurried away by clean hands
(But I alone know
they are still there)
I think of these marks when I am to eat with my host,
Or if there is a fit of silence
when I am writing words,
and wanting to write angry words (that read like sobs),
So, death by mocking,
I think in clichés of flora and fauna
and not of how I want
to tear that stupid ring from your stupid face
and now drown me in lethe.
