Dusk falls in the night with no end

Hours slip by ticking
Out cells of my eyes
One laborious, one
Yogurt, wet, heavy
Slides thick like thighs
Waitout the drumlike
Dance of blood upon
The water plane, a
Would be quenching
If it weren’t for the fact
Of saturation—one cannot
Force a toilet filled red
Any more wet if it
Were monsoon, typhoon; the
Katrina of my doom. I
Look to the wall—I thank
God for the ticking, memes
Of my eyes tickle fight
On the floor. It all is
Inappropriate, and I am
Not young enough anymore

Photo Credit: Mateus Lunardi Flickr via Compfight cc

Elisabeth Horan

Elisabeth Horan is a poet mother student lover of kind people and animals, homesteading in Vermont with her tolerant partner and two young sons. She writes to survive and survives to write - We are all battling something. Let's support each other. Elisabeth enjoys riding horses and caring for her cats, chickens, goats and children (not necessarily in that order). She teaches at River Valley Community College in New Hampshire.

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