I've been writing for 7 years, but I'm really proud of this one I wrote recently, it came right from the core of me on a very dark day.
The Man of Many Maladies
The Man of Many Maladies
has flowers that fade to grey,
the dry rot,
the twenty-one grams
and he is already gone by morning.
An overpowering, a tyranny of mind
seeped through the porous skin-
it is there now,
it will be there.
The engine, custom made
by some sick saboteur, is slow now-
it makes gruesome churning sounds,
metal against metal, noxious sparks-
like an expiring titanium bird.
The ivory keys of a piano
play somewhere in a distant room.
There is at least meaning in that.
He hears it and tries to imagine himself walking,
just walking, nowhere in particular.
Where in that place there once was air,
rich and sharp colours,
movement and sound.
Where there were wall-mounted clocks
that could be easily ignored-
other people pass through there,
and will again.
But for him there is just the music,
the music, and the darkness.