wondering how the world ends and then doing yard work
by scott from jail

Haunted, as in the back of your head,
hitting a thousand empty angles
wondering if death is like this,
if the silent ripples of black ponds are this,
if the diseases of the mind, breathing life's contagion are this

and then, head down, like a heart weighing itself too often
wasting in doubt
breaks off the spell,
not because of sickness, but because it is time
and then

like something funny, said in comic relief
ending it all, not by a battle,
but by a re-arranegment of sticks,
coming together as sticks do
in the yard, broken sometimes, and random

at all times, there under the tree which, lazily
drops them in the wind
to pick up, throw away
remember not at all
because they were just sticks.

Copyright © 2013 - scott from jail
Published: 1/24/13   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem