There each new morning,
emerging from the shadows
darkening in all four corners of the room,
awaits each aspect of Poenitet.
The first holds a pitchfork
with prongs to turn back time
just to that excruciating moment:
The rasping of a voice, shouting;
The strain within muscles, lashing out;
The muddle of misplaced promises blotted out;
The second has parchment roll
to take account of every fallible instant,
each screeching etch of his quill
cut, cut, cutting:
The brown-black stains upon
the stove from the burnt remains;
The grinding of two, now interlocked cars,
mangled and twisted;
The warmth of another’s blood
rivering over guilty hands.
The third stands tall and dark and insidious,
always above, spotlights beaming from his eyes
to illuminate those frantically trying
to push the visions aside:
A card for a wife that still sits
on the shelf in a shop, unpurchased;
A parting (or escape) from raised voices,
raised tempers, in silence;
The splattering of curdled milk,
it’s odour scraping the nose.
The last holds a vial to catch the tears
that the others evoke dutifully.
Each one sparkling with the taste of lamenting:
The first tastes salty;
The second is bitter;
The third is sour;
The fourth is sweet;
But the last, still clinging upon the cheek,
is only for the approaching final form of Poenitet
to devour and regurgitate, again and again,
like a fly upon a wasteland carcass.