The Things

"The Things"

When hour’s late and moon is red,
and everyone has gone to bed -
With all things done and all things said,
I let the things out of my head.

They come out crawling from my ear
to greet me with a heinous sneer.
With ruckus rude and quarrel queer,
they devastate the atmosphere.

Rare hearts they break and crimes, commit.
The blinds are drawn, the fire’s lit.
From public eye I must omit
my mirth that’s clearly counterfeit.

I cannot stand their coarse ballet -
A layer of their rank parfait.
Yet still, I spinelessly obey,
in fashion with my slow decay.

With sun anew and snakeskin shed,
I gather them with horrid dread.
My soul cascades like blood, wine red.
The things - they fill me up like lead.

                             - e. rose