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it's like if water was joy
poured into a vase
then some one comes
along knocking it over
spilling all over the floor
sopping up as much as
can be sponged still
not enough to ring
a towel worth of once
was upon once done
in the spills a reflection
like a shadow over
a looking glass or
a picture frame of
horror painted in the
likes of Francis Bacon
melting flesh like drips
of candle wax running
down & over hands
of holders drifting through
darkness across dampness
of earths sunken soil
quickening like sea sand
yet gravity has no pull
too weak to raise bodies
from a pool of drowners
sea of Debbie Downers
whining griping complaining
oh, the last drop
like it's the last straw
too slothful to draw more
