The Splintering Time

The Splintering Time

The time of the flat-
line, that cyclical place
where no pleasantry
comes pleasantly -
the laryngitis time
is upon him once more.

Each night his fingers open
to speak, and each night
Bones finds nothing
but a fist

full of splinters

flying
towards a world
that does not
deserve
such rage.

Fingers clenched,
he waits; hope
from a man who does
not hope, prayer
from one who will
not pray, and he waits
for the splintering time
to pass.

_{(2011-06-29 @ 01:08:35)}