Oh, how he feels it hears it
ticking in his chest (his heart that is)
and how he so wants
to ooze onto the floor
likes some greasy mess (he thinks he is),
give in to it as it gnarls into him,
and all he can do is respond to ‘it’
and hammers on the door (the inside of it).
They come those willing saviours –
offer to assist - and all he can do
(in the hell of it ) is scream:
f*ck off as he hammers on the door
(the inside of it).
there is summer in his bones
and his voices give into this…
accept the doves
and he (and they) is at peace with this…
there is naught but f*ck off
and he exists within the hell of it
as he hammers at the door
(the inside of it…).
Brian at dVerse has us writing as the blind poet, which is of engaging the senses other than sight. Above is my offering.
Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons