Poem-A-Day: Day 83

Nothing Brains Can’t Cure

Feet are roots bound to berber bed
that pulse failures to ceiling sky
through a system of cellular inactivity;
marred and broken tree
swaying forthcoming like a dog
drunk on its own filth,
a garbage scented sweet with sweat,
pain,
anger,
nothing…

A blank canvas waiting paint
for a picture more vivid
than capture can presume
instead gets a fist through the middle
exploding constructed guts to the floor:
wood,
staples,
brains…

The wood a dam,
damning the flow that tries to pass through,
stopping the tide despite the moon’s calling
glow that fleshes it towards the sea,
because it finally saw,
that there isn’t,
wasn’t,
won’t,
can’t…

The water seeps in crevices carpeted,
wastelands in a wasted land
that seeks the sword for solemn release
but finds the pen much stronger
as liberation within the wooded battlefield,
bleeding,
broken,
cure.