Sparse (A Poem)

And these eyes scoured the

                                      dirty

                                            dishrag in the pot.

  When even the soap

                                       could  /   Not  / Distill

                                               The sinfulness of dirty greasy dishes

                                                                                                   lying at the bottom of the sea

 

Somehow it always –

                                         exhausted me –     

                                                                                 more than.

                      

     excited me.

 

                     I would often run backwards –

                                                                retching  my frightful-

                                                                                                      contempt –

 

On the penniless empty handed wallet.

 

I called home.

 

          And still / still you /  insinuate your innocence

 

while your teeth grind

the sinews of

red meat.

 

~Melodic Rose~

 

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