The faint odour of bleach sticks
In the back of my throat like
The faint sounds of old songs stick
In the back of my mind, part remembered
But now mostly long forgotten.

Memories stirred by brief encounters
With apparently sourceless smells
Are now obscured by the length of my nails.

Stars and clouds alike hide from me
Behind the light in my room,
And I search for them in vain as
My bedside lamp pervades all
And obscures all but the brightest
And the closest lights.

A few days ago seems like years away
Into the past as I look beyond
My smothered nails to the dry ink
That formed a plan now implemented,
And that will some day fade from black
To the brown shadows of superseded
Information and forgotten discoveries.

My mind moves to a table reserved
For famous people, next to a window
So that all the spectators outside
Can stare and wish to live a life that
One day will make so many wish to die.

The person at the table is alone,
A single deer to be divided between
Each of the enormous pack
Of hungry wolves who lie in wait
To devour any creature stupid enough
To willingly walk into their trap.

They may try to make more food
For themselves, but they will never
Be satisfied, and never leave.

Theirs is the vile stench that mixes
With the memories I hear.

08/17/2002

Posted on 08/18/2002
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince