Monday, April 24, 2006

Flailings of some sort

He rushed up to the door,
banged upon it,
tried to knock it down.

His knees crashed to the floor,
hands to eye sockets,
as again he's thrown himself to the ground.

Frantically waiting
is his S.O.P.,
coupled with an outburst at the peak

Of a mania that's fleeting.
He has no peace;
he's doing his best to merely believe.

But up he rises again,
a bit bruised up,
eyes all red, hurting, wet, and sore.

Then he gives the merest grin,
hands a-tremble,
trying to find his center once more.

The door starts beating,
quite quietly,
fear strikes his sensitive nape.

The boards now squeaking,
his heart a-thump,
tongue wagging, his mouth all agape.

The walls closing tightly,
pupils all wide,
feet frozen with no idea of what to do.

Seeing is believing,
or so he's thought,
although he's learning it's not always true.

Copyright 04/24/2006


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