Tuesday, July 30, 2002

something about stress makes me

something about stress makes me rhyme:
END OF THE LINE
Too many times I trod these steps
the planks split-smiling at my feet
familiar is the dust I breathe --
contempt, a fragrance sickly-sweet.
The hands that push me know me well
and I have seen each calloused fist
unnumbered times within this hall
on countless ventures to the list.
The sallow tallows wanly glean
acquaintences each twenty yards
a metal stud within a wall
malevolence of faceless guards
One time too often have they come
demanding what I cannot know;
one few too many bowls of soup
have slid like crabs beneath my door.
No longer will I bother waiting.
Sunlight does not reach my eyes.
The pain and hunger do not matter.
I no longer am alive.