Drowning Dionysus in grapes

Written in 2009, not really a story, but hardly a poem ether, not sure what to call it.

You don’t feel inspired, oh how tragic my dear girl. Sister’s and cousin’s alike lay in plastic beds, and your mother’s home crying over her last pearl. But here you are, desperate for a reason to leave your pillow topped prison. Let me guess he didn’t call, write, or care enough to visit your pillow topped new home; how criminal! The world stands at his feet, a victim of cruel deeds. A voice calls for you, breakfast is in the air. But who could eat at a time like this?

Maybe they will finally understand your scars; finally they would see your martyrdom as a triumph in the name of love. For once why can’t that breakfast be served, as a prisoner’s last request, a fine meal served in bed, to mend the wounds of a broken heart? You fought for years in the trenches, battling friends, and foes alike. Mornings become blades of grass, men become lawn mowers. You lay in bed, beginning to wonder in awe, if grass could ever be allowed to grow tall like trees.

This gentle suitor knew all the best jokes, he told riddles, and respected your craft. Always letting you lead, standing at attention always before you sat. Always with a well told story, so vivid you could lock it away in your dowry chest. You hear a knock at the door, this month’s roommate redundant in claims of bacon, and eggs. With a final hiss, and groan you give proclamation of this day’s hunger strike, time dredges on.

No manner how angry you mold your thoughts, you realize it’s been years since you found anything funny, and riddles are games for kids. What turns you on? Do you even know? …typecast in a classic plot, no passion to understand your own thoughts. You notice the time, the nights singing your song; you grab your cell phone, shower, and put your make-up on.

Author's Note

ignore grammar, I never learned to read.

Reviews

[Kasey Klein]

A interesting departure.