CTRL-D

There is a sadness on Beacon Street.
Like suicide, it hangs around the corners.
I look up at it and wonder why it is there. 
It never answers.


“Holy God,” I say to it,
“Holy Mighty,
Holy Immortal, please have
mercy on me.”


This thing called “the Sloth” started following me yesterday.
It is shaped like sin or a blank hole.
It hates me but I can’t break away from it.
I run and I run but it’s always there behind me.


I run heavily. I run until I can’t breath.
I can’t say what is on my mind except this phrase;
this awful and good phrase:
“Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal,


please have mercy upon me.”
Breathing is such a fragile thing.
If the sloth follows you
you can’t breath because you will


never stop running.
I look up at the corners and shudder.
There it is, this thing shaped like sloth.
It’s covered in bandages and it has no mother.


“Sloth!” I scream. “Sloth, don’t haunt me
like this.” It doesn’t talk
or cry. I begin weeping and saying,
“Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal,


have mercy upon me.”
The sadness on Beacon becomes palpable
and rain-like. It drips on my sins
and my cloths. Everything becomes wet and cold.


“Holy God” I say, “Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal
drown my sorrows in liquor.
If that isn’t enough, then kill
me because existence is meaningless.”


In the sky fly three birds.
One is a bird, the other doesn’t exist
and the third is like a bird
except it is shaped like the Sloth.


When It opens it’s mouth
it screams in silence and I weep
because all I hear is “Holy God,
Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal,


have mercy upon me.”

There is a point to poetry about sorrow for the simple fact that in sorrow lies a large part of human existence. That is the context of this poem.