Reality is the Irregularity of the Past.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Perhaps Formaldehyde

He is an ancient man,
Machined by mangled trends, and ends
Abridged in some other lesson,
Pinned to a board still fluttering,

Held on display for scowls o’ critical faces—
Meticulous cuts and cross-glances,
Glassy smirks, perpetual by his penning—
But, now He does not fit into her bedroom.

It must be a woman who dies second;
For man cannot cry and dry
In loosing such hoary…youth;

Still, I believe I taste the tears
In this chicken just now fried,

Maybe, she left for good;

Or perhaps formaldehyde.

No comments:

Post a Comment