My head rising upwards
Towards torpid clouds
I’m in a strange place
In a unchanging moment
Cataracts of poverty and ennui
Denigrates the blood
The nerves scream
Of the life, not there
The heart faintly there
As morose eyes lead the way
To anyplace
This provincial town
Murders me daily
As one can murder or heal with eyes
The years writing their blank verse
Upon the hands, heart and the mind
The eyes can search for opiates or ethanol
And one can still murder accidentally
Like stepping on a ladybug with a shoe,
As Strangers from Terror read my face
In lines of poetry or wisdom,
As bad teeth are tortured and massacred
By the Teachers of the Prosaic
Everything falling
Everything wrong
In foolish motion