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Rusty Nail
by Nicole AssenzaMy mood does shine,
Like the luster of rusty nails,
Times oxygen, to my mind,
Has turned it ugly and sharp and sour,
Tasting of blood and dirt,
I lay about outside the house,
Buried somewhat in the bed,
Among the cool-smelling blooms,
All new and bright with spring,
I, am upturned, never moving,
And I wouldnt regret,
A suddenly stabbed foot,
Of an unsuspecting walker-by,
Sampling lightly their metal flavored pain,
That makes them consider themselves,
Because they had stepped on me,
Before they walked by,
Since my mind is still stained,
With those not-so-scrubbed away thoughts,
That are sticky to the fingers,
Like dead flower juice,
Clinging like shadows to the edge,
So when every breath inhales,
That stench of existence,
Remembering to hate the lungs,
And the heart, that furthers the hours,
Ticking up immeasurable sand grains,
Pressed from dunes to sugar cubes to some,
To me, as dust and cobwebbed corners,
It means coppery, tasting needles and bleeding foots,
And cool-smelling blooms,
That seep their whispers into the earth,
Comforting those still, beneath it,
Or half-buried in fresh beds,
Those wait for walkers by,
Outside the house, attacked,
By air that turns their inside orange,
Ugly, sour and old and sharp,
Like a rusty nail
12/31/2005 Author's Note: This poem is just brown and rusty. Even though the font's black whenever I read over it it always turns brown.
Posted on 01/01/2006
Copyright © 2024 Nicole Assenza
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