The Lever

I forgot to pull the lever
to wash away my fever
as they handed me the cleaver
so I thought that I would die
fry cry sigh
like the wind crowding through a
lonesome tree that’s free
and wants to be
uprooted polluted convoluted
like the trail of a snail
in a crooked shell
that’s bound for hell
and wants to tell
how the spiral of his life
contains all the strife
and the fluff and the puff and the stuff
that wants to burst out
and carries the clout
that’ll make you pout when you get a punch
to the gut that resounds with a crunch
a sickening sound that abounds
as you hit the ground
like your head’s filled with lead
and you’re dead
like I said
and regrets rain down
like shards of a burst balloon
that inflated too soon
and makes you swoon
as if the tides
and the moon
are pulling your soul out of round
and the sound from the ground
where your feet settled down
is the splatter, patter, chatter
of rain in pain trying in vain
to wash away my fever.

Shoulda pulled the lever.

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Poem by Ozmoid. Art by Magzilla using paper by 53.

Snow

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Snow fills the air and blankets the ground, blankets the hound, the home, the piles of round logs waiting to warm us, ready to be fed to the fire, fodder for the heady warmth seeping into our clothes, our hands, our cherry faces; those snow-packed gloves, scarves, coats leaking water on the hearth. Piney scents fill the room until the essential vapors of cocoa chase it out of my nose, warm creamy steam enticing me to drink even though the cup in my hands tells me my tongue is in for a scalding…