His black coal eyes glare.
He takes those books and throws them in the trunk.
A rusted axe, a battered door, a broken lock.
In goes the family silver.
In goes the skeletons.
In goes those shrieks of pain.
In goes his monster frame.
In goes sanctimony.
In goes alimony.
In goes pedophilia, necrophilia, hymns and prayers.
DEAD.
BURIED.
NOT DEEP ENOUGH YET.
Her black kohl eyes glare.
He takes those looks and throws them in the trunk.
A scratched arm, a battered door, a broken plate.
He takes his shame and folds it roughly in the trunk.
He sits on the lid to hold it down.
Climbing down the grave.
I shovel earth.
I beat it down,
It grasses over.
Sitting on the hummock, we feels their spirit...
We'll be leaving our sorrow.
There'll be sun to morrow.
Le mal est dans la malle.
DEAD.
BURIED.
NOT DEEP ENOUGH YET?
I love the idea of 'morrowing', to morrow is to morrow. I will be morrowing. Neat word.
ReplyDeleteLet us morrow.
ReplyDeleteThe white-throated nuthatch says to me, "There will be time on the morrow, which is where time resides. Let's make plans to visit him there."
ReplyDeleteI told him that my trunks are packed.
ReplyDelete