I'm dripping out of myself, splattering the floor with my remains—
Merely a reminder of the fragility I've always personified. So shall I go on,
Splattered, splattering, & staining black nights like glowing bundles of dying stars.

Unsung of, unheard of, unhappy with the insignificant droplets I now am,
Lacking wine's bloody furor, & beer's foamy sense of expression; an ode to the failure of some matter I can't simulate—a certain percentage of water that I can't stimulate.

In the distance, the rain washes away the regular human filth, heavy and violent,
While I fail to cleanse myself, forever doomed to the impending contamination that I can't control:
A fool's fate. Mentally exhausted, perturbed, succumbing to the fatal tongues.

With eyes like sulfur—diabolic and mean—
I produce some kind of anger that can't be explained with words, and, at the same time,
I produce some kind of words that can't be explained with anger.

Thus, I can't justify this poem:
I can only gather its wet pieces,
Hold them against my chest,
And walk away, dripping.

2021.