small winged forms
a goddamned swarm
of them in my head
from whence they were
born to crawl across my tongue
to their so-called home
or slip of
No one knows where the ladder goes
Have I mentioned the agony of mortality recently?
The monotonous anticlimactic ending of it all.
The dreams in which my living family die
Sounds of hellhounds pawing at the door
Sniffing the air, pacing in my hall.
How much difference does it make?
Not a single piece can guide us away
Not one word will offer up escape.
The coffee maker pours out the strangest sounds
at four in the morning.
Little hissing puffs,
Was that a deep low growl?