Monday, May 10, 2010

dark mountain

-

Several miles beyond, the dark mountain looms
threateningly - mirroring my mood
as we both brood coldly. Snow clouds hold
grip of its peaks and melt in an icy drizzle to the
ochre and umber, wind-swept valley below.

Inside this dank motel room with its peeling
walls, my addiction is both hidden and enhanced.
The room’s grimy interior is closed to the world
by a threadbare curtain which hangs
askew, sealing me inside my drunken fortress.
I lift bottles to my mouth with abandon,
gratefully lacking the contempt of others.

A tinny television mutters a string of profanities
from a corner, and a faucet drips incessantly into
the filthy sink. It all seems to echo what I
have become. I have become as this dead, dry fly,
scraping back and forth along the window sill,
manipulated by currents of stale air.

2 comments:

Adelaide said...

This and your earlier poem give an unvarnished portrait of someone struggling with his demons. They are strong in language and image and in feeling.

Adelaide

Warren said...

Hi Adelaide - Thanks for commenting - this is a scene out of my past when I was a reporter in the resort areas of Ketchum/Sun Valley (Idaho). I intend to keep it in the past, but it never hurts to remember the misery and hurt it caused others and myself. I have always appreciated you and your poetic talents - thanks!

Warren