stealing metaphors

sitting around as if I were a modern rendition
of the Lincoln Memorial
minus the nobility
plus a whole lot more grief
than any French sculptor meant to add

I’m fighting off the whimsical little beasts
that often find their way
back into the folds
of a small room somewhere
where one man
feels a storm in his heart
lightning flashing on the inside
a fierce rain
pelting the core
as if there were dense, lead rivulets
tapping warm, bare flesh
hard enough to leave open wounds
as clearly marked as motel vacancies
on the wrong side of town

as silence crawls up the walls
like defiant cockroaches
shuffling their way far beyond
my reach
I sit here stealing metaphors
from my angst
with the lights off
and my face off
and the sun down and out
for the count
not so different from a once glorious
heavyweight boxer
who stuck around past his prime
5…4…3…2…1
a stillness closer to death
then to sleep

and as the smoky mist of a new day
breaks me away from the void
I pull open curtains
pull back on my face

that’s it
now I’m ready
I’m ready for you all
last night’s behind me
and this fleeting thought:
"I wonder if Lincoln ever sat like that?"