(Things that are meant to stay unfinished, incomplete)


Early morning while digging a deep well

To water my mouth, I tripped and fell

A dying wish unfulfilled

Where the light green tendrils giggle and dwell

Drenched in the desire to decipher all dreams

I ended up talking myself into madness

The windows that burnt, pictures hanging on the wall

I look at them and all I find is sadness

Those times of wanting to be just left alone

With my pieces scattered, or my own little blackness

Bloodied fingers, hammer slipped carving stones

The skeletons of everything I held for too long

The faces, conclusions, prophecies, decaying bones

My porous veins, my ailments, nothing ever understood

At the rope hanging by the ceiling, my gladness

I waited for the fog to clear the endless

Episodes of despair, trails by the embankments

Early morning while digging that well

I wanted my heart to bleed and swell

What collapsed long ago as the birds flew away

Empty cages with the curtains drawn, corrode yet they sell

They who felt necessary to chain my mind

Picked up their rosary beads and left me behind

I still search for them, circles is all I find

Float through this place like ghosts, were of my kin and kind

May not present themselves, like the flowers they shy

Although not so ugly, layers of skin deformed

Come with me, I’ll show you their footsteps in time

I don’t know why they hide, I don’t know where they’re from

While a thirsty man carrying a shovel and dirt

Cries to his last few lingering wishes absurd

Do you see the blood, can you see his hurt?

Oh, the view is plenty, the windows were burnt

Early morning while going to dig the deep well

A fresh heap beside it, I tripped on and fell

My favorite spot for keeping wood and carved stones

The talking tendrils laugh at my comic arrival

I clench my fists, show my broken teeth

Like a chant, a hocus, a dark spell

Bursts open, their laughter echoes through this gloom

Sweet winter breezes tighten my knots and compel

Early morning while digging that deep well

What I dug was my own grave, on it I tripped and fell

One of the stones I carved now there rests in peace

The tendrils, soft and moist, in this bayou they dwell