Poem

Through their blank eyes
they speak their dead words
as if they are them. They
caress their means of existence
as an exhibition of ritualistic rounds,
with their spittle dried around
the edges of their mouths
giving way for the darkness
to feed among each closing
and opening of their haunted
caverns; they truly believe they
are among the structure of it all.
And exactly as they are, we see.

-M. Taggart

Diluted #Poem

I’ve not seen anything built so strongly as
the crushing greyness of the waning
winter hours. As though the great gurgling
of Spring is hushed by a diluted punishing
lack of light; the voice of time had very little
left, and all of us feeling its weight,
are tightly packed into our seclusions searching
through the greyness for the smallest of exits.

-M. Taggart

Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe

photo taken 3/5/21

Pink Eye – Odd Walking Thoughts

The bus was crowded and I didn’t have time.  You crowded me further with your pink eye.  You told me that you could change your eye color at will.  I didn’t believe you.  I watched from the bus window as you walked to your door.  Your house was dark.  The steps were old and wooden.  Your house had broken walls.  Now you’re gone and I still don’t know if you changed your eye color.