Dark Poetry Prose Poetry January 10, 2006 Dark Poetic Prose

01-10-05 tuesday 11:08pm

living is crushing stones with a toothpick.

impossible task we're doomed to do relentlessly until we find success. whatever that is.

won't those dungeons turn darker when. at last you lay down in. while the blankets you move under mimic your silhouette.

this glassy bed. all ready to crack. these pillows made of lead.

you try to rest without touching it, but your skin is so loose. that skeleton wiggles inside it as you move. and every limb is out of place.

no fingers left to grab with. no toes left to balance your strut. just a merri-go-round of moments as those steeds frozen in their gallop ceaselessly pump.

and you feel them only in the sense that you remember having had. because you no longer have any shape to grasp them with. but there in the flaccid puddle of your skin there still are phantom bones.

giving depth to your pile of broken toothpicks as it lay beside those stones.