The Fall of Man
An empty room
of an old farm house,
down the hall began
to turn in on itself.
A clogged drain,
desperate to break free,
a chugging spiral downward.
A dance, really; darkened, elongated
His naked haste
to call the boy hereó
there were words, certainly,
but lost in screaming silence
of the reeling moment,
rag-doll-thrown on the ground.
Taking it in, the boy sputters and
coughs, like on a cigarette taken too early.
He wants to vomit;
instead, he gags and spits
phlegm, fluid, mucus on the floor.
The boy staggers, lurches, darts
from the room, the isolated farm house,
the surrounding fields. Bright sun stabs
into his eyes, what he has seen, tasted,
The screen door slaps
the doorframe, shuddering.
Humid haze presses the clouds down;
he feels a shortness of breath, then, nothing,
numbness, a swallowing of the pillóa serpentís bitter fruit.
Edited by BeautyforAshes (09/10/12 02:34 AM)
Taking it back one day at a time.