2/29

I didn’t go off the deep end, I chose to dive.

My spirit animal is a dead dog trying to play alive,

Chasing the tail side of a trick coin with three heads,

A spinning cerebral Cerberus barking up the wrong tree,

With brittle branches thinning as it climbs out on a limb,

Splintering claws carving macabre tallies of no apple prize,

Warning leaves show contorted faces crying out,

 As wise winds vie to blow off a withering genealogy.

The good book has been glued shut with the sap of God’s miracle elixir imbibed.

Genesis generated power zapped, lapped up by snake-long tongues,

From a hole at the bottom of the cup that no longer runneth over-

Drawn blood bank drops below threshold under pressure-

Of arrow-sticks in the mud muck made by stem cells,

Apoptotically shed,

From Saint Sebastian’s ironically smiling head;

“Smite me O’Mighty Smiter!” he said,

Lamenting the souls lost in transition,

Those of us perpetually too far from the river bed.

But don’t cry for me;

 I didn’t go off the deep end, I chose to dive.