Must not be the season-
the words hang soft, shriveled
from the otherwise bare branches;
determined teasers, they are:
still hanging, swaying in a bitter wind.
I can’t reach them
though god knows I need to.
I am starving here-
wilting away with a sever lack of concept.
I can’t reach them,
those rotten little pieces of life,
just dangling there, using
what little breath they have
to laugh at me and my desperation.
They know I need them.
Fuck! Is that the best I can do?
I crawl, hands and knees
under the shadows of condescension.
I’m dying, it’s dying, and yet
I am the more pathetic of the two.
I crawl, to find whatever fallen fruit I can.
And the best I can find is this rot,
this decay that even those stubborn little snakes
have chucked from their starry haven-
don’t they know they’re dying?
They may last the winter, but even into spring
if they don’t have my hand for the harvest
they are dead in their torpor.
What are words without a writer?
What am I … out of season?