Part XVII

In another dream,
blood soaked rags are holding
my brain inside my head
and my own gravy is running down my elbows,
pouring onto a dusty ground
that bounces up when the moisture hits;

No doctor can suture the damage done by
life and it’s brutality;
for a few moments,
the music that used to beat me up,
returns – and I am so weak and again…
alone.

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/24/14 Midnight