My tranquil place is a damp, dingy basement
Dimly lit by lengths of moonbeams
Writhing through its clouded storm windows
Bouncing from dust particle to dust particle
Circulating so until they illuminate
Specs of old ass paint barely hanging onto
The wood paneling lining its cold walls
With a single, bloated fly buzzing about
Broodily beckoning me to ponder
Over how it is any of us come to choose
The room in which we’ll eventually die
And why it is we play at escaping
Into whatever ply of light left available
As our eyes cease to receive it
For whom do we put on that show?
The creep who enjoys wandering aimlessly
Into damp, dingy basements?
Whose pages of depressed scribblings would
At best serve as Kierkegaard’s toilet paper?
Who immediately separates into a figment
Of their own imagination upon catching
Even the slightest whiff of contained decay?
Still, I impress myself when I’m in my tranquil place
Though I will nothing in particular there
I fly through substance, all the same
Darting about from one wall to another
Back and forth; back and forth; back and forth
Feigning agitation at the stress of the air –
But a mere moist becoming beneath my wings
Its weight meaningless, no matter where I land Read the rest of this entry »