... addiction ..., ... anger ..., ... death ..., ... experimental ..., ... ghosts ..., ... God ..., ... life ..., ... moon ..., ... night ..., ... pain ..., ... poem ..., ... poems ..., ... poetry ..., ... the South ..., ... time ...

sick

The South rests as
Charmless as a
Gray dusk

A once fertile bosom
Now nothing more
Than grist for
The mill

And all that remains
Of me is the chaff
From her threshing
Floor.

Fit for the fires of late October.

A pyre of dry casings.
Lives unlived.

And nightfall our only respite.

Advertisements
Standard

6 thoughts on “sick

  1. Dad. says:

    Sad but true. Somewhere out of our country, some poor
    slob will get a couple of bucks for a hard days work. What is so sad is that they are proud of the salary.

  2. Sonny says:

    This is one is so melancholy. I feel as if over the years the sadness that has collected in the valleys of the South has drained all the color out of her. There is truly nothing left there… but headstones and tired souls. The heaviness of the place– captured perfectly in your poetry– has me fairly well convinced I’ll never return to again.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s