Poem-A-Day: Day 251

Citizen Cain

I grind my toes into the berber,
it reminds me nothing of grass,
or sand, or dirt,
or anything that seems wholly natural,
yet it only seems natural
to be in the place where I am,
seated slouched over
in some possibly leather chair,
with the backlit screens
creating an infinite mirror,
but I am no Citizen Kane,
instead I have stabbed that man blindly,
leaving him slouched over a desk
bleeding natural thoughts
all over the sand and dirt
that has been ground into the carpet.