top of page
Final Opus
his greatest creations
were written in violet ink
on a page of flattened spaghetti
so that when the rains came
like tears falling from heaven
in great invisible blobs
the words melted
became pale worms
hurrying away to find shelter
from the flood of forgetfulness
as his pen squirmed away
fell to the ground, scurried off
sky darkening now
a gray soup filtering down
washing away the last fragments
his world now a cage
of uniform metallic holes
a sieve!
around which a thin strand
of lost inspiration danced
like St. Elmo’s fire
or the rasping legs of crickets
and the taunts of other inmates
as they stuck thumbs in their ears
pulled tongues at him
© Johnmichael Simon
2012
.
bottom of page