By Aidan Romo
In this ground that I sleep,
With the sun gone far from me,
My soul wails to the sheep,
Heads spilled red with agony.
As them, as an infant’s
Soul traded for pure pleasure,
I’m another misfit
To them all in this torture.
My family, my friends,
My nagging blood, my dead weight,
I’ve made means to an end,
In my weak head of self-hate.
Could not stand and shout out
To let my own burning cease,
So now, from my eyes sprout
Worms; my new friends without lease.
They don’t enforce regrets
That do plague me in this hole,
Or remind how I met
This depression in my soul
Because now I am mute,
A shell of long tainted flesh
Free for maggots to loot,
A new waste of the race rests.
Comments