The Last Good Thing

Imagine your own catalog of pleasures,
Tearing them away page by sodden page
Like petals, all she loves me not, darkest
Before dawn, finally sleepless and knotted
Like a bed sheet escape ladder from your
Window in the asylum, dead while alive.
No escape at all, no light or sound except
The steady drip of pain in the heart, head
And extremities, now that everything is
Pushed so close to the edge that falling
Is the waking dream that substitutes for
Life, everything drifting away on the wind.

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 )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ 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 )

Connecting to %s