My veins are chalk and the VCR is gone,
The affairs of life are unending sand dunes—
Jumbled and pained, like Picasso’s Guernica.
I sharpen my steak knives with regret and
The tire swing where I once played is ivy.
I’ve sent my dreams through the wood chipper.
My eyes are holes of obsidian but dull--
I cannot remember when I was happy.
My heart is an ice cave with gates
As tall as church spires to keep hearts out.
I shower cold and think of Mother and Father
Who are gone—once on a marble pedestal.
No longer, now they are simply dead.
How odd it is to have grown so old, so fast.