There is little wit

There is little wit

The laughter is forced

Beaten into the brain

Trying to befuddle

The fool

Who believes he has come home

Found his way.

Lying on the ground

Looking up at the sky

Afraid to wonder why

The leaves lie

Thickly over me.

Wet from rain

Blotting out the light

Folding in

There is an earthiness

But no smell

To speak of

Though it is rancid

In every way.

Nothing breaks through

The grey

The muck and brine

Salting my throat.

The rusted wheel

Of a broken pram

Poking out of the ground

Blood on the grass

A wedding ring.

This is a dream

With bloody, sharp edges.

It tears lumps

Out of the scenery.

I am in a room,

Out of it,

Startling up,

Wavering in between

Waking and sleeping.

There is no wit to it

I am in remorse

Welded into it

Bolted down

Into concrete

Manacled to a wall.

This is no perversion

There is no eroticism

The blindness of panic

Held by a single thread

As comprehension dawns.

Mastery is slow in coming

But once attained

There is a release

Into morning

The twist and turn of

Dead men, gone

For a while.