Mad

It seems, these days
in
the tedium of it all,
the mellow desperation,
it’s not uncommon for one
to go quite mad.
Not the kind to be locked up
in an institution, no,
just enough that
even walking down the street
makes you want to do something
extreme.
Mad with unexplored passion
or with living in isolation from the
exquisiteness
of quiet.
Mad with the omnipresent hum
of the working man,
that seems to keep turning into
a swarm
of mechanical wasps
taking jabs at you.
Mad with wanting to say:
“Go on, punch me in the face,
see if I feel
a thing.”

Characters

Grace

The foundation of our home
quivers beneath us,
the rest of it – decomposing,
speck after speck of dust.
We wipe traces of decay
off the furniture
every day,
though light barely washes in,
and clear patches of sky are
in short supply
under the embargo of the giant.
Even the fruit have dried up
on the old pear tree
amongst its last leaves
turned to untimely rust.

It feels as if we are
running out of grace.