thinking feels
like pulling a rickety
old rake
through loose gravel
but the tines bend
over the stones
doing nothing
in repetitive motions
to the surprise
of none

settling into
a quicksand retirement
sinking low
beneath the sludge
waiting for the dark
to swallow the light
as bands of agonies
seize sensually
until everything
is a stained glass refrain

everything is covered
in sharp edges
despite best intentions
and earnest effort
the slashing
continues unabated
while bastardly dream
pulls back
from desperate fingers
slashing surreptitiously
to the bone

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