10/07/2009

The Grasp.

The flicker of the television
siphons the subconscious
weary of tomorrows viewing,
the flower wilts with irony
embossed on my fingers
control, out of reach
inhibitions inhibited,
outside a tapping at my door
an intrusion of humankind.

The gas man needs to screw
me for the bonus of a life
time bought and sold
down the gutter of convenience,
construed from paper talk
tattered and torn, the grasp
lost, inside are my waking hours
vanquished from a loved heart
bereft of compassion, empathy gone.

© 2009 Michaela James.
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