He sits in the darkness
as if it were day
A glass of red wine in his hand
Mumbles as if he has something to say
Counting out memories like sand

Tiny grains stuck inside holes
in his teeth
Pebble thoughts stuck in his shoes
Scattered on pillows and
dingy white sheets
Weighed out and paid out like dues

Paid out like nightmares of
innocent names
Ghosts that won’t let him find peace
Paid out like footnotes
in permanent stains
Hunger that never will cease

Lost in his thoughts
while neglecting the times
Broken, like glass on the floor
There’s nothing to show
for the depth of his crimes
Only the dead he ignores

He wanders the house in a
maze of disdain
Jealous of past escapades
Life is a jester with
Jello for brains
Time is the devil in spades

Lost in degrees of
Burned autumn leaves
Blown into heaps of distress
The man with no soul
who will never believe…
His lust for more pain equals less

Fantasies (fixated)
Favorite last breaths
Bleach to create a clean slate
Balancing plates on
the fingers of death
Filled with the good things he hates

Filled with confessions
His victim’s last words
Photos of posed body parts
Jewelry and clothing
Locks of soft hair
Buttons and tattoos of hearts

Frogs inside boxes and fleas inside jars
Can’t find their way to the top
Holes are for foxes and bodies for cars
Searching for just the right spot

Now he walks in the darkness
as if it were day
A bag and a shovel in hand
Mumbles as if he has something to say
Counting out teeth just like sand

Counting out souls of the angels who lay
in the shallow graves covered in lye
Counting the lines
in those dark cryptic rhymes
Filled with the truth, he denies

Yes, he buries the pretty things
into black holes
Covers the tracks of their tears
A poem for an epitaph
A harvest of souls
Memories like dark souvenirs

Now he sits in the darkness
as if it were day
A glass of red wine in his hand
Mumbles as if he has something to say
Counting his memories like sand

©2024 TM DiSarro

New Book December 15th