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Austin McCarron

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Death Of A Misanthropist

Time,
mouth of Sundays,
dreamless, elect, shops in air.

Stranger
than the heart’s bully,
I dream your eyes, the death of you,
lying in a field, playing with mirrors.

I see you,
at the ghost’s picnic, drinking
out of warm text
a glass of stained messages, perishable images.

I wear you in dreams,
with your gun of time, your helmet of hate,
saddled with consciousness, the murder of eyes.

I snap memory shut,
guiding it into the future, glimpses of radiance.

The chemicals of soul depart.
I sulk in black flames,
driven deeper than snow, rubbing my insides
with disinfectant, to remove all trace of you.

Dressed in eternity, soul dot,
clean of blood, you leave a team of hours to die.

I bury you in a coat of ashes,
giving your clothes to charity, to the homeless, air.
With arms raised, I fit you into spasms of light.

 

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