Poem-A-Day: Day 60

Oblivion

Oblivion,
watch it grow
in the hands of the wild-eyed
poet come to town,
as he scrawls dangerous whimsy
on the stalls of bathroom walls,
and crawls from fantasy floors to cheaper whores
than most have grown accustomed.
He stokes the fire,
burning blatant free on broken branches,
choked down bottles, and a loss of equilibrium
passing judgment on a night of violent visions to behold.
The blaze it burns and dances on his tongue
under jealous notions
passing glassy eyes, and steamed yellowed words
on sallow paper folds that crisp
in ashen madness, popping no less than three times
before emitting deathly embers to the sky
for slowly dropped release.
The poet rolls from town to town
stomping fires he himself has grown,
and punishing the faithfully renowned.
With each passing footstep
flames fall remiss,
and oblivion
has nothing more
to kiss.