Poetry

CATALOGUES

Here’s the price—

tagged piece of poem

you bundled my hands for,

and put into cuffs.

The thunder stroke—

with its careless light

I cried with a pen—

stuck in my hand,

lamented sorrows with a cough

until you saw the fire

choke from within

to the silence deafening your ears.

Here’s the miserable piece of art

your canvass feels irritating to hold.

I met her flustered

with fading intentions

related to your sickness

baited as weak emotions.

I took care by picking broken lines

and mending leaking holes,

for the sake of a tomorrow.

So we ascend into pleasure.

Here’s the part of me—

you wrote

in the hearts of evil words.

They haunt and taunt and kill my essence,

swearing curses that looks exactly like me.

I will find time to rest

my head and feed death

after I’m done swallowing these catalogues.

 

5/7/17

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