Looking out the trapezium-shaped window
I notice the postman going from house to house,
so heavily steeped in the abstraction
of Humanity's tar pit of false realities.
The predetermined societal trappings
have consumed him. He knows nothing
of actual Truth. He is just another lost cause
among the masses' massive disregard
of the plain as day Universal Truth abound.
There they are again; no one
alone in the vicinity, all in hordes.
Indiscernible as blood
in tomato soup.
They worship and follow,
coining tradition along the way.
Their paths commingle throughout
the guts of centuries; flesh burns off,
war ripples like a California fault-line;
that Thought beckoning in the back of minds
for what seems to be forever the question
of integrity and myth—
This is nothing new.
It is the usual.
Sometimes doves come,
but usually it's the vultures.
You stuck your hand out the window
just as the storm was fading away
saying you wanted to catch
the last drop of rain.
a silent movie—
She comes in from the tulips,
frowning in a downtrodden shade
of stained glass wine bottles.
Another one died, she says,
for the tenth day in a row,
holding me, then raveling
my unthorny head and neck
around her slimmest of writs.
Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Into the Void, winner of the 2017 and 2018 Saboteur Awards for Best Magazine. He is a multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee as well as winner of the 2018 Poet of the Year Award from Taj Mahal Review. He has published 6 books, the newest of which are To Burn in Torturous Algorithms (Weasel Press, 2018) and The Ethnnosphere's Duality.(Cyberwit, 2018).