The merit of one is rather uncanny,
A narrow mind of ill-perceived wit
In the midst of a perception based
On tragedy— as cold as a river stone.
The brim of your cup is filled with
Nettle, swimming in poison that's
Disguised as hot tea with a brittle
Scone. Your breath is terse as
Chilling steam bellows out from
Your lungs upon the aching bones
That gently cradles a jackrabbit pulse.
The fog slips from brash lips and
Steps on a wired tongue, ever-so
Fickle and bated as the breath you
Pull from your sharpened teeth.
Quiet and still, how the silence
Bleeds out into the morning air
Which rests like churning clockwork
Among your humble, yet harrowing mind.
Your strength may find the will
To cower and steep a dark imagery
So that you are sweeping the rug
Beneath your own legs, slipping until
You lay as barren and dull as a river stone.