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The rains falling down
On my mildewed little hovel
Like piss on my grave
Decanting the loneliness
Of God himself;
Right to me
Write to her
Rite to nothing
Groove of perpetual groove
Cascade down my soul
And make it move
This stagnate essence
In me turning to bile
To poison
To rot
I give her a piece of life
Some disparate flotsam
From Rom knows where
Autumn leaves
And angel's down
Rutabaga and a semblable
Postern to the light
Side of my soul
Or something
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I like the play with write, right, and rite. A very lonely poem....was this post-breakup or pre-gettogether? Either one can make for tremendous self-introspection, and self-doubt. You have captured that with a few simple words.
