Liquid

I'm dripping out of myself, splattering the floor with my remains— Merely a reminder of the fragility I've always personified. So shall I go on, Splattered, splattering, & staining black nights like glowing bundles of dying stars. Unsung of, unheard of, unhappy with the insignificant droplets I now am, Lacking wine's bloody furor, & beer's foamy sense of expression; an ode to the failure of some matter I can't simulate—a certain percentage of water that I can't stimulate. In the distance, the rain washes away the regular human filth, heavy and violent, While I fail to cleanse myself, forever doomed to the impending contamination that I can't control: A fool's fate. Mentally exhausted, perturbed, succumbing to the fatal tongues. With eyes like sulfur—diabolic and mean— I produce some kind of anger that can't be explained with words, and, at the same time, I produce some kind of words that can't be explained with anger. Thus, I can't justify this poem: I can only gather its wet pieces, Hold them against my chest, And walk away, dripping. 2021.