Soma

Nightmares and a cold, gray room
Gone stale
Reflecting the drizzling dimes of a drowsy Tuesday.

On days like today,
Everybody’s sins taste delicious except my own.

Wrinkled fingertips, weary
From their murky dives become
A plaything to slashing entities
Shaved and grated to become
Cheese for the chicken carbonara.

Strange,
The numbing effects of water.
I don’t feel a thing.

I walk home in the change,
Blood mixing with asphalt, draining for lunch
And soon
I am dying, face down
In a puddle of my own making, which speaks to
The prevalence of puddles in Winter.

Warm sin trickles to my tongue.
What a pathetic effort,
And I drink.