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written by: TM DiSarro



He sits in the darkness
As if it were day
A glass of red wine in his hand
Mumbles as if
He has something to say
Counting out memories like sand
Tiny grains stuck inside holes
In his teeth
Pebble thoughts stuck in his shoes
Scattered in pillows
And dingy white sheets
Weighed out then paid out as dues
Paid out like nightmares
Continually haunt
Ghost that won’t let him find rest
Paid out like money
To get what he wants
Showered with all you detest
Lost in his thoughts
While neglecting the times
Broken as glass on the floor
Nothing to show
For the depth of his crimes
Only the dead he ignores
Wanders the house
In a maze of disdain
Jealous of past escapades
Life is a jester with jello for brains
Time is the devil in spades
Lost in degrees
As the bright autumn leaves
Blown into heaps of distress
The man with no soul
Who can never believe
His lust for more pain equals less
Ball of confusion
Makes up his small world
Spinning him round like a plate
Balanced with care
On the finger death points
Filled with the good things he hates
Frogs inside boxes
And fleas inside jars
Can’t find their way to the top
Holes are for foxes
And bodies for cars
Looking for just the right spot
He walks in the darkness
As if it were day
A bag and a shovel in hand
Mumbles as if
He has something to say
Counting out teeth just like sand
Buries the pretty things
Deep in the earth
Covers the tracks of their tears
Life is a prize that is void of all worth
For one who is feeding on fears


©2017 TM DiSarro / MindScapesPublishing

TM DiSarro

TM DiSarro

I do not consider myself a writer but I love to write. Neither a poet but I love poetry. I steal bits and pieces of time to scratch out ideas on note books, laptops and cell phones. I live and work in Florida fabricating custom canvas and other fabric products and sometimes costumes.
TM DiSarro

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