Advent of the It

The hate forbids
its own retreat.

far into the corner
I
eye
a titillating slug
snuggled in the
basement of a falling cavity
that sneaks its own secrets in
for appointments with the mourn

with an infectious snare
the morbid climbs up in shocks
rocking itself with threats
about weaving glistening
death thrones

It had not been previously contemplated,
the possibility
that this may be it
the graveyard to passions
nuzzled in clicks of ideas
and spurts of mirages
a faithful intercourse
a sorry survival tale

never previously contemplated
the concave choices
crammed between walls
of regret
and age to spew

This may be it
the red light bright
and desiccated petals
dark and famished
under the forgotten garden
of murderous bark
and stark
idle veined leaves.

She leaves.

This may be it
for I can see no further
nor the persian cat
that breaks its beak
to pour its sorrows
with the whip of a tongue

and I can write just as easily
about unfathomable truths
and codes of consent
to dissuade revenge

This may be it
I never thought
I would become as cumbersome
as the pains amongst the spine
or icy mornings
and only my man
says he must look after me
though he cannot conceive
how useless such statement
if this may be it

when the forlorn spoon
drowns in its own breath
and awakes with the acrid
laughter
and gargantuan yawns
off into eternity
at the speed of dark
and batting eyes of
the daylight sleeper

This may be it
when life spends itself away
pursing the lips
with that desire to strangle
impending across the light