Nothing compares to it really as
we toss and turn in our sleep at
night and pray for deliverance
We’re stuck in our bodies whether
we like it or not, we twist our
souls in our sheets trying
to survive it.
Dissolving slowly like all our
past lives, lived and counted out,
or taken down by disease, there’s
no escaping hell.
Except for those who have found
their god on earth and heaven
above, but could they be wrong?
With this sweet song of repentance,
love and forgiveness for all who confess
on bended knee to make it through the
eye of that needle. I toss even more in
my bed with questions.
I’ve rubbed myself up against so
many hard days from my past
and they are not comforting bed
fellows. No escaping them, I am
stuck in my body not yet shed,
simply dissolving, dissolving like
a rancid pool of dripping sewer
water thrown out with the waste.
Picking my coffin when the time
is ripe, the salesman will laugh
when I ask him to let me try it
out for size and then inform him
that the cardboard box will be
just fine as it burns for a third
of the cost of mahogany fine.
I don’t share my hell with anyone
but myself, as there’s no hell like
our very own.
In the meanwhile I will continue
to wash under my armpits, pluck
the feathers from my belly button
and accept life for what it is a
box of chocolates, never
knowing what you’re going
Let the seasons change,
and October blow at our trees
limbs and shake their crusted
leaves to the ground for us to
walk and crunch their sounds,
from selfish colors they fade
and leave behind.
Strange things are happening in
our world and cities, as our blood
keeps pumping from our heart
and channeling and lubricating
I crunch up my pillow under my
sleepy head and turn over to stare
at my ceiling, to watch the fan
above squeak and churn, while
the sun attempts to creep through
my verticals. Damn it’s just another
moody Prairie morning and I
crossed the finish line.
© Copyright Vincent Moore. All Rights Reserved.
He was born and raised in Montreal Canada among the Irish, Brits, Italians and French. Point St Charles (commonly called The Point) was the Hell’s kitchen of Montreal. He played, cried, laughed and fought on the street corners, survival was an instinct and watching each others back important. Vincent left home at 17 to find his way in the world, failure and success he had plenty of. He studied the Arts and loved to draw and paint. Took acting lessons and envied those on the stage under the bright lights and hoped to some day become an actor, writer, playwright or painter. Vincent welcomes you to his world of mystery, fantasy and solitude. You can find a few of his writings in one of 3 books he's published.In Absinthia- In Melancholia and In Passionata.