reckoning
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I write or die;
not because skill
was born inside me
rather,
flesh, bones
even blood,
formulate to fail.
Begets a sadness
worth pity
which bores me near,
Annual pilgrimage beginsthousands flocking to our doorsbraving elements of chancewhat does new year have in store?As they enter our domainsobedient to adverts’ beckoningis there hope for addled brains
Staple gun to my head
Pin it closed the gaps of dread
Leaving out the slips of blood
Creeping forward pools of red
Wash my hands are never clean
