Another month spins its way down the toilet, with no job, no prospect of a job, no hope for Eschaton and too damned many hopes pegged on RSI to ever be realized. I just wish people would pay me to write poety ... or maybe pay me NOT to ...
DAMNED WITHIN VAGUE ABSENCE
this becomes another cage
another place where dreams decay
and darkness touches everything
with tendrils of putrescence
here there is no future
but for the vile decline
here there is no light
but for the madness of the fires
locked between these worlds
there is no escape
we are not freed
but are exiled
to this grey and empty zone
which is all loss
and no attainment,
descent without return
we are set
as in a gel
a spider in Lucite
lost inside some drawer
we cannot move
we cannot do
we have no contact
we have no context
even active days
yield naught
for every mark we reach
is erased by the tides
within this cloaking haze
every task once done
is denigrated, cast aside
as not the needed thing
and now so few
of days remain
our safety net
has dropped away
as we're free-falling
down towards the rocks
the shattered fragments
of a world that waits to kill
- Brendan Tripp
06/29/2001
Copyright © 2001 by Brendan Tripp