Free to Write

The crack in the mirror opens to your leveled neighborhood, to the land of the dead, as tears scald my cheeks. My thoughts dance to a frenzied drum-roll while I alert myself to the arrogant fact that yesterday’s lovers have left with no ceremony and the clock in the town square has ceased to chime.

Nearby, on a sidewalk, where no pedestrians pass, my dreams--like beggars--sigh, bending into their empty cups. Then they straighten their supposedly crooked legs and sprint fast to the river of gloom for their daily swim, but they all sink to the bottom.

Yet, the years still draw breath for me. Why? Did I get entangled in Heaven or Hell to let time lurk inside the shadows, splintering my image and staring me in the eye through this jagged crack without fearing my rage, now chronic?