Obluguttan

He blooms
in the eclipse
of despair
and hangs
among the
psychic thorns
in the island
of isolation.

His widowed
mother has let
a lecherous vine
wind around her.

Thoughts are
cankered. No
one brushes
his behavior.

Dark
sunken
silence.

In the shade
of gloom,
he grows
like a nettle
in the societal
sand,
fertilized by
the ma-compost.

First published in Page & Swine.
Reprinted in The Literary Hatchet.

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