The Inevitable Mire of Horse Shit

Drowning in despair,

photo by Hungrybison

the inevitable mire of horse shit.

Let us retire to your room,

let me sink my iron into the warmth of your flesh.

Our being together,

soothes me, in its outlandishness.

My equilibrium is gone,

my eyesight blurred.

Is there an alter to kneel before?

My anxiety is displaced by whiskey,

and a fondness for the congregation

of the abused.

A cross, a desperate sign of optimism.

I should not be interfered with,

I should be afforded a tolerance.

I’m dying, I need a place,

to draw my last breaths.

I need to get out of this cold,

this numbing Montanan brace.

A futile hope for a reprieve,

before my flesh rots from its frame.

A cross, a desperate sign of optimism.

Was I not true?

Was I not a decent man?

Should I not be assured of my place in Heaven?


Sleep eternal awaits for me,

for my unabated surrender.


1 Comment

Filed under American West, creative writing, fiction, lonliness, micro stories, original photography, poem

One response to “The Inevitable Mire of Horse Shit

  1. Reblogged this on hungrybison and commented:

    I had a relapse, almost found religion, found myself in the dirt instead.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s