Sunday, July 10, 2011

another swampy day on tap--

with air so thick I could die
and remain upright--

the height of the light is passing
but the full heat blasts

and I think whoever dreamed up Hell
slept fitfully through a day

as hot as this one...


no dreams here--

empty thoughts emptying out
of an empty skull

and the reason for my being
in this predicament

forgotten by me--
so this is what the end of life

feels like to one who cannot dream
who cannot sleep in merciless heat

who cannot know anything but his present hell--


a mirror


the center of

the hottest circle of hell--


the center of

the deepest part of hell

is bitter cold

and a shade

would form on the sheen

as it wiped away frost

and stared at itself

in the ice--

each extreme the measure

of some transgression--

ever one's own self

is cause for its own fatality...

Content (c) 2008-2011 Philip Milito.

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