The streets are smeared, slick and wet,
Rivulets of screaming madness crash
Against the peace. The night is too harsh.
One could end up in a discarded heap.
An army of foot soldiers descend on
The scene... a voice lost, she cannot scream.
Yet, before her eyes, she sees arteries,
Lights flashing, blood red, sputtering, and she~
.....She is tight, like an applied tourniquet.
The night is an evil siren, she wails,
Then Is eerily quiet. Her hands have
Bound her with excuses; she is reminded
That she is weak, a victim of her mind.
She aches... worry wears her hands, always
Stressing from hiding behind fog of fear,
Some breath-prayers. Alas, standing before her~
Winged creatures, black caped, their eyes indite her~
.....Their tongues hurl insults of surrealistic truth.
Third window from the left, fourth house, room
Seven, to the right, a run-down corridor~
She’s lying, no, she’s floating on a raft...
Her breath raspy, she attempts a whimper.
Weeps she now, without warning, closes she
Her eyes...She’s soaring above the house tops.
Blue-black, bloody, steaming hot, cold, the lost
Night below begs for relief, begs for mercy~
.....And, considers how it’s supposed to end.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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