Melting

The sharp edges are worn away.
Life has made me smooth
as sea glass,
rounded where
once I was polished blade.
Dull,
infinitely dull.

Abrasive salt,
cloying comfort,
ghost of habits that linger,
cocaine in the brain,
burnt tar in the vein,
the machinery must slow.
It wheezes and creaks
and balks at it's own failings.

It runs like crepe paper in the rain
(at the atomic level)
it all streams downward,
melting.
Storm drains
become the gates of heaven
and St Peter
is a sewer rat.

Reviews

[Doctor JKC]

I am battle scarred too, at 57.
I work-out constantly just to
maintain mediocrity.
I also get that shower scene
image from Psycho with my
own blood going down the drain
off approaching age.
Plus a few 1000 too many beers,
joints, and wives.

Excellent piece!
Jack

[.]

I feel the weight of yesterday in this piece...

"and St Peter
is a sewer rat"

good line, reminds of something Bukowski would say...Peace, R