I clutch this rag close to my heart,
For the memories it imparts
Are what make life dear to me,
While filling it with misery.
This rag is all I’ve left of you;
You’re both covered in mildew.
Mold covers you, it, my soul.
Death I cannot decontrol.
The grime and squalor here
To my view scarcely appear,
Since no reality’s as severe
As consuming loneliness austere.
Home is where the heart is–left,
And I’m homeless and bereft.
I wander through the blind streets
And not a human do I meet,
For demons wear egoic masks.
Sympathy’s too much to give or ask.
Snowflake’s plagues fall everywhere,
But a little piece of threadbare
Wool gives off more lasting heat
Than the cardboard o’er my feet
And the newspaper on the bench
And me. Fate is a heartless wench
That takes what it wants and leaves,
Clueless of the ones who grieve.
Without you all my treasure’s gone.
Why work? Why live? No God. Alone.