Of Tribulations

Breathing becomes more difficult for you.
Each day births another sore.
Those maddening tribulations,
Always knocking at the door.
You search and search,
Your hard, wooden floor,
Until you’ve lost your chair behind you,
And can’t return anymore.
Where your dead sea meets your living shore.
There is a blind bird.
Perched upon the shoulder,
Of a lonely, tattered whore.
Grasp her throat,
And hold on tight.
Here’s your deposit of fleeting light.
And ye though we walk through this angry house,
The curtains have all become your blouse.
And the boards that were once your stepping stones.
Well, they are now your brittle bones.
And the streets you loved as a child so much,
Are overrun with flowers and such.
But the fair is over now,
There is no room for you here.