fact, pt. 2


sometimes the man
is a bat
in that a pen in his hand
is giving wings to a rat
lives in his own world
and his world is flat
thoughts like ships fall
off the map


drip drops from the
water tap
tap, tap his forehead like
a torture trap
to drown, to ground in a
whatever hope one hoped
to have


to churn,
to burn, to set flame
a laugh
that echoes down a
burning path
to exist dissolved in
an acidic bath
so well deserved as a
matter of fact


-m.p. 11/18/2016

This poem is about: 
Our world


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