Somewhere deep in the dark
Behind a vague barrier and stench
Lies a whole being thrown back on himself
Rusted shut a disused wrench
Marked by piles of unwashed clothing,
Untended dreams and
Ad hoc pater nosters and means,
In a fog of soupy hope and fear
Athletic socks, discarded bills
And extra cruft, there someone seems
To exist to himself, as if without recourse,
Humming a story of hurt, of lies, of too much
Remembered wretchedness,
Lying on a bed of gems
Within an adamantine fence
Buried somewhere he espies
Attached to twisted effigies
Holy saints' common sense
Held by tender reins and well-fed
By excess prudence, sanctioned theories
And nature's damp abundance
Too far withdrawn for rescue with intent
With too much wisdom turned in like a sword
On fleeting thoughts of selflessness
Wearing unsuited methods, festering in a breeze
Waiting on earth to move,
Or for ocean waves to spit him forth
Like bleached flotsam or plastic
Stripes on a barbed-wire fence,
He bets on chance and watches
Successful gamesters play
Doubting that his darkness and dawns
Should herald different days,
Still breathing, just in case
To die is not better than
Callous raging resentment.
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