The Raging and Consuming War of The Poetics

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

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