Wits end

I am made of cardboard and shadows
Living in a dark house.
I sit chewing on the light thinking about the
Dog packs of clouds circling overhead,
I poke at them through a solitary window,
Waving a stick, blinded wood;
Intolerable words enter my head like a corkscrew.

I made a fire and burned letters— tired of a read.
I am subtle of a hate for age,
Dull arthritic fingers in a sag, cringe in a write.
Touch a paper now, rip it like a bag,
Slowly, slowly with dead eyes.
Toss it in cellar, crippled walls; flaking like a dumb fish.
Crumpled fear, strangled by its wiry hands.

I dream of a love, it consoles me, a wish and that wish
She were still alive, black gap on a lip.
When she passed, her body was carved in pain,
Her screams dyeing hospital air.
Nurses with bright needles pumping a vein,
She lay blankly as white walls;
One cry as I stumbled from a life.

I walk around with a stuffed expression,
I made it myself, wriggling worms in a mouth.
This marrowed thinking, small like a nostril
Breathing the bowels of a rage.
My small white soul is wilting lettuce;
Limbs, limbs grabbing for hope.
I have a choice, wrinkle in silence, or touch a life.

Copyright © 09/09/18 lance sheridan®

At wits end