Sweat

A Poem by Perdition

  Morning tasted like s**t. His hands, always sweating in attestation. The office was again tangled in debt, yet, much as resistance can mind, all of it laid mangled and distantly displaced from his current reality. Does it even matter, he thought? Does ANY of it f*****g matter?

By the long drawn distant thoughts he knew it was noon. He knew that his world, the one he had so intrepidly traversed and lusted over was forever gone. His fears, again, soon would find their place.

He knew the flood of thoughts. The course of fear and the recoil of  confusion. The floorboards tilting and the aroma of  any future calmed by the wreck of his plans.

 This afternoon would only swell into a stack of bills,  an empty sea of phone calls and faces, all of which now seemed somehow too distantly honest; something that only his loneliness could accurately describe. No one knows better than he of nothing and nothing is all that will  take the the time to watch him die. 

His father perhaps, once, but he too was broken years before, and as a dreamer; chewed alive by the teeth of his miscalculations, left alone to the enigma of time.

In his office he now dreamed of letting go, of taking one good step, one course into the crosshairs and into the lies of all he'd become . He dreamed but something always seemed to stop him. Why?  
He  felt such simplicity in the taste of cowardice action. I mean, when you stop to think of it, aren't we all just cowards after all? To believe otherwise is dishonest. It's a foolish pride and how much longer till this metallic taste wears through?

His phone kicked to life. His mother inside his mind, and once again his pains returned. He was alive, of that much he was certain, tie and watch in proper place. DAMN! 
What a wish he kept inside his throat to merely slip away, and what a day for disregard. One last step and then "reality". 
He groaned over the complications,  hands pink and still filled with sweat. His heart now racing inside his chest. He tried and remembered some greater good. The bus that passes every hour on the hour. It passes his street before noon. Each one a joy made of possibility. Would this perhaps be the last?

© 2017 Perdition

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Reviews

Alisa Js

🧐Sometimes in life, our worst nightmares fight to become alive...stretching to take away our very breath, if we allow it, if we even for a moment in mind...a hiccup in time. It is then we must stand up, with every ounce left in spite of our once battered
dreams and scream with all that’s left, “No way! Not this time or better yet, He’ll No!”

For it’s in that second, that flash of what’s left in that sinking revelation ..that we will continue to fight until our last breath!!!!!

Well done, you!

Alisa😎