That Goddamned Fan Poem by Stayin Song

Death's open arms
Are too often seen
As malicious rather
Than an embrace of escape.
Life passes through us
At the rate of street lamp beams
And street car booms
Through an open window.
The room is dark.
A single bed, night stand,
Dresser, mirror and a
Fan
That goddamned fan.
Cool and comforting, spinning
Too quickly to comprehend.
It's as if it's waving hello,
Or worse,
Goodbye.
That light beams through
Keeping slumber at bay
And giving nourishment to thought.
Dreaded, revealing, loathed
Thought.
It tears at my mind's hinges.
It lingers like a bad odor.
Bad odor is just a thought
Rubbish.
Using my mind leaves it mismatched
And crisscrossed.
I'd rather my mind rust than remind me
Of what we are.
Thought will be the death of me.
The rays radiate in,
Polluted by obstructions on the windowsill.
The beams, shining like spotlights,
Are fragmented when they finally
Reach through the window.
The light is tarnished.
Light never passes through a window untarnished.
It's either an obstruction
Or the shape of the window that does it in.
An open window would do the trick,
Open windows are like closed mouths-
A rarity.
Purity is a legend.
Purity is a bad pun that repeats itself
Until it's met with grueling laughter.

That goddamned fan.