by on July 21, 2010 :: 0 comments

in the squalid mirror
while, a wall away,
axmen kill the very wood
from under you.

Your eyes
well with tears,
your reflection with dust,
and “timber!” shouts
the infernal droning echo.

What’s that…
a skull with lips
sculpting your despair
with holes enough
for worms to slide through

while, in the bedroom,
forces greater than
the scratching of a fingernail
make the world safe
for your religion once again.

Leave a Reply