Black Sabath

Gone, all gone,

The reckless usage,

The waste, the poor choices.

Looking at the mirror,

Eyes bloodshot.

Nothing settles this,

There is no way.

I scream at the spider,

Who had the gall

To gloat over my burning .

Day of rest? Day of wrest.

Day of peace? day of piece.

Homophones drill through

The wall and through the ceiling.

I pretend it is the song

Of a rare bird, a rok perhaps.

They took a break finally,

I guess the kitchen or whatever

Can wait until after lunch.

At the moment, all solid values

Dissapear, and it like the uneven

Jagged edge of broken glass.