Poetry

He walks the end of man

By February 6, 2010 No Comments

Flaccid head rolled over caved chest, staring at tortoise crawling, gravel freckled
pavement
Never has there been such a nebulous thought of listless solitude, such a stale epitome of
sedated alone
Skin engulfs skin in the taciturn buzzing of lamp disrupted moonlight
Multiplexed mind dwells on its own recycled dwelling as carefully bowed sneakers
trace neighborhoods traversed by uncountable nights before
Loose smoked clothes meld dust with air, while gravity petrified arms sway illusively
Mummified legs snap crab claws, clicking against disease slithering in slices of
continue
Damp chills leave no impression on his bottomless banal senses
Overloaded taste buds acquire no appeal in appetite, but aimlessly billow below long
futile breaths, against bumble-bee mudded, tree bark tissue teeth

He does not take your words
He does not view his path
What he was, can no longer support him
He is the excavated sarcophagitic crux of sundown

In listless progression he makes progress no more, swamping forward without any
insight or balance
Much too late for his stagnant embodiment to realize an unfamiliar curb or a bronze leaf
Cicada crumple crunches onward, a horrendous gloom of anti-youth and atomized
humanity

Why does he move on?
He walks the end of man