His dreams were chaos, the ground maggots
eating one another snap after snap after snap.
A vacuum pulled them in, and he with them,
squashing their soft, wriggling bodies against his skin
until they were pressed together into one.
Discord plucked on a silver harp, played
by her, who he’d never know again.
There was no telling what he was now,
crawling, belly low, through the neatly trimmed grass
attempting to exit the maze of cropped box.
Everywhere were deadlines, corpses of the past
left to rot against them. And he drinks from
the sullied stream where they lie.
Treeshallow Musings 