He showed up in the hills at our house made out of glass
He showed up in a daze worn of the past years we let pass
He walked inside knowing everywhere to step
He made only the sound of the depths
The depths
The depths
There
An absenting stare
Over fog lights in the hills
I drove to
Exhausting my last cares
I knocked
My hand felt heavy like a rock
I stood still
With the house
And darkness falling onto my head
Two figures
One took my rock
Looking past my eyes
The other in straight jacket
Poured her gateway dyes
Silence
And I’m heaving, sick
With a racing relapse
On the halls
Plast back my past
We let no apprehension known, there watching as he fell
We met the days as fastly passing even as he dwell
We doubt in him an ability to count his own missteps
We let a ghost of ours go sink into the depths
The depths
The depths
Unfurled,
Cracked, and catatonic
I sat then lay
Into a new black sofa
Detached from reality
Memory
Everything, once, I held
It was all at some point burnt
In a way to not entirely destroy,
But to experiment with life
With hope,
Betterment I thought
By way of replacing
All my body with stone
Disquality laid to ash, and such
Forever,
With stillness, a layer of dust
I could not see
Though I heard no protest
Of two I’d come here to expect
He bould into the black, the depths, and from him rose a fire
We did not put it out, but simply removed all of our glass so
He would wake again, not to face, nor to regret, but
We who drive away into the depths
The depths
The depths
from july 23, 2019
poem from the past a day #17
somewhat awkward, but i think it gets somewhere in the end.
parts of it lean on the glass house proverb, and i enjoy how that's tucked very simply in the background and the poem doesn't rely on the metaphor, but demonstrates its toxicity.
the little gimmick of this poem is that i wrote it from two perspectives, although it's so short that the characters only interchange five times.
