This spiral of madness swirls about me.
Wind winds through
Paper thin walls and windows.
Floor boards stand rotting around.
This is home and there is no other.
I have that bottle of 80 year old scotch
Cradled in the cupboard.
You wouldn’t find a crumb to eat,
Minus the commodity canned meat
That i’m still not sure about.
There is no savior here.
My heroes are all dead and gone.
The last thing I believed in was your
Whiskey fueled whispered seductions.
Water passed mouth to mouth
between the dead who remain thirsty.
Promise in its abstractness carries multiple meanings.
To seduce a spirit and make it yours
You must sing to it.
Mockingbird imitates crow.
The way we are nothing and everything,
With as much incendiary power.
We are as terrifying as we are healing
And even more trenchant.
We live in an equation of anger
Where survival plus acceptance
Will equal your defiance,
After everything has been taken from you.
© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley, All Rights Reserved