Who’s in the mood
to sob over a sad story?
Well, I’ve already suffered
enough sorrow in my life,
so I’m afraid
you’ll have to seek
elsewhere
to get such a fix
tonight.
Now please excuse me
while I slip
stealthily away
from this grave
that was dug
six feet
too deep
and placed
squarely in the path
of my dance hall beat.
Crawling out of the casket
so I can drag back
a more appropriate carcass
to bury in the hole
that sinks down to hell,
because it’d be a crying shame
to let a good plot
go to waste.
If this all sounds trite,
you’re probably right,
but I’m doing my best
to remain polite
while describing this plight
of how poison
punctured through veins
to pulse
within
the fallen blood
of paradise.
The apple of
this world’s closed eyes
is rotten,
and worms are weeping
at the core
of its decadent heart.
So stab a stake
through its center,
count to three,
and then pray
or plead
as you see fit
for resurrection
to release
from out the soil.
The rising angels
of our better nature
can feast upon
failures of the past,
and, gaining sustenance
from a replenished earth,
we can begin
to restore the splendor
of an ancient garden
in all its greater glory.