House of Wax

And at night he stays home where
the dreaming is like water. Used
to mop up wasted time.

But some days he wondered
what would happen to man if he
were ever able to grasp his Loneliness
invoke the physical tangible lumps of grip.

His couches and chairs would stand their
waiting, patiently watching
while struggling to hold
in-laughter

The pictures clinging to his wall were bored with him
watching them live out crazy fantasies, all of them
having either lost their pride, or all faith
in whatever it was he'd originally set out to do

Snickering when he left the room.

Running vivid in-head like the earth's springs
we're the forgotten after-imageries of the hereafter
before the "who" he used, to be in a past life

Sometimes his hands remember
they used to be hooves or all the
people with sunday mornings in their smiles
while the sun laughs at this with his usual pretentious conviction

and death watching babies cry as they past by. Sense they don't want to become young men