Clockwise Cat Issue 40

drowning in a puddle
nearly 5 centimeters deep.
You picture the cubicle,
the cement-block of a building
that imprisons and calcifies
even your most vibrant dreams
exploding into a green fire.
If it could be razed to the ground,
stripped of even its wrought-iron skeleton,
then the burnt and barren plot
might spell liberty for you
and other hopeful souls.
A scorched plot of land,
a scar upon the earth
won’t spare your blood.
The drained face of a jeweler
holds a light to your shadow
when you pass down the ally,
and unleashes spittle onto concrete
only to turn back inward.
Slumping your way home,
The spiders weep for you,
Rubbing their plump bodies into the rotting walls
Even dead earth tells tall tales.