The Flood in the Attic

The flood in the attic has washed away all the clutter

Of the half read books and unswallowed pills

Clearing my mind of the blood in the gutter.

Some stranger’s letters in boxes having never lost their lustre

They held up the roof, an excuse until

The flood in the attic washed away all the clutter.

Damp floorboards drip a torture that never was subtler

Press shut my eyes, pretend that its rain; a shower; a kiss

Clearing my mind of the blood in the gutter.

It was the moon that spoke, opened tide gates with bolt cutters,

“Waste no neuroplasticity!” charged and stole away with the chill

The flood in the attic has washed away all the clutter.

And then I was warmer, but in a world of steel, like hot butter.

Was it a pillow kingdom departed? For what? Are new foreign ills

Clearing my mind of the blood in the gutter?

Beloved supply chain of bullshit, had I meant to disrupt her?

My hands having done so I hobbled on, needing neither sorrow nor will.

But now the flood in the attic has washed away all the clutter

Clearing my mind of the blood in the gutter.