The electric blender
is crying as it spins
round and round and

the spilled milk is
making its way to
the edge of the

counter, while the
refrigerator hums its
solemn tune and

something pops up
in the toaster, charred
beyond recognition.

Dried, faded
red carnations
on an electric
blue tabletop,

a dark green
avocado sliced
open, revealing
the inner canary-

yellow flesh and
sienna-brown
seed, and in
the foreground

a child’s doll,
prone, naked,
generic-beige
plastic skin, an

impossible figure
of a woman, all
rendered in an
even, flat lighting.

You were worried about
the storm, so you
invited it in,
wanting to control the
damage through your
kindness and friendship.
But you can't.
The storm doesn't have
a conscience.
It will never be a cute
pet on your leash.

These halls seem somewhat hollow
A certain sense of sorrow
Now graces ancient stone.
Replacing familiar faces
With defaced family paintings
And cold ancestral bones.
Thrones thrown upon a pyre.
Fate becomes the folly
Tomorrow the unknown,
The brows of time are furrowed
Past spent, lost, or borrowed
Flowers forever bloom alone.
Rats, the last lords of ruin
Rule cruel shadows from the walls.
Twilight sighs at daylight's rise
All seems dark till darkness falls.