The Struggle of Acceptance

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.

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Toast

The butter didn’t just melt on my toast this morning.

It oozed itself lovingly into the pockets of air

to become one with it. The bread was very fluffy.

 

The other day, the toast burnt. The butter simply sat

in a puddle on its blackened surface.

I swirled it with my finger; it looked like a golden elixir

gone wrong. I used it to write my name on the table.

 

She didn’t like that. I had to wipe it up immediately

using a kitchen towel. The yellow liquid stained the fabric.

My name had tarnished something of hers.

 

I make my own toast now.

Haste

They called it that when they missed

The  chance

To say goodbye

Business is business, after all

Everything measured in a tiny flask

That swirls its mixture around with

Every stride.

I love you

Going unsaid because the rules say

It must.