Every morning I hear your voice
It bores into my head like a maggot
And hates me with the loud indifference of its existence
Leaving round red rimmed weeping spaces
Where smooth skin grew
cigarette burn scars
And dreams like ice water baths
That make hearts ache in fury
and fall away
Each word red ink pen on white marble
That weeps for a finer hand
Not for the tuneless scrawl of the
Infant’s petulance
That rips at the cool silk glass silence
Of every morning


Leave a reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s