By Lee Rourke.
Riveted to an existence that makes no sense even in the cold light of day
Only the claustrophobic slant of amber light
continually suffocates; a ligature gripped in might:
you have failed today; there’s no end in the distance,
only the tightening, slanting, crushing persistence;
pinning you down; riveting; fastening like gravity
pulling you back towards yourself; deadening; heavily.
Is it any wonder this failure will tear you asunder;
the desire to escape all this: your only blunder?
She appeared within a dream, stealing
manuscripts, tearing sheet after sheet
into little pieces; each resembled petals
or snowflakes tainted with specks of ink,
grime, acting like dust, the paper smudged,
tainted, scattered around her jittering feet,
she allowed each piece to drop, taking
immense joy from her actions, as each
shred floated slowly, fluttering to the floor.
Within a fit of screaming she was defeated;
the remains of the tampered manuscript
snatched from her inquisitive grasp in pieces:
calm was momentarily restored; creased;
torn; the pieces could not be put back
together, before the unfaltering dawn
of a new day took hold—another alarm.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lee Rourke is the author of Everyday and the forthcoming The Canal.
First published in 3:AM Magazine: Wednesday, February 11th, 2009.