The message never gets across,

I cannot blame it for failing, for like the desperate man

telling his heart to stop gripping tightly, sucking

the very breath out of him and as the feeling of dizzy peculiarity

washes over his mind as if complaining about all the wrongs

the heart has thought, I ignore it,

as the message gets itself becomes ignored.

 

The message, one of such ease to take in, one that requires

so little thought on the receivers part, is tossed aside

as if written on a paper napkin, stained with curry sauce

and the remains of the last good sneeze, into a bin if its lucky

but more than likely

onto the road, thrown from a car at speed and wrapped around

the obscenity of modern life.

 

The message, so simple, yet undeservedly mistreated.

The unheard, perhaps with deliberate forethought,

the chest tightening squeeze, no I shall carry on,

like the message, I am immortal…

until my own curry stain dribbles from the side of my wet

slavered mouth and I too, feel the speed of a throw

from a car window, wrapped in cloth, stained and discarded.

 

Take hold of the message I have tried so hard to send,

it might be too complicated, wrapped in cipher,

wrapped in the terminal, for I truly will not enter

conversation with so one who thinks so low

and cannot see the depths of their own foul stink,

I ignore, just as ignore the pain I have caused under my skin.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015