Alloyed

He would journal
Only about the honorable,
Only about the philosophical.
He would stem the flow
Of his desire, and control
It, blinking back thoughts,
Like the boatman who fights
To steer in seductive waters.
When his uncle died,
He would bite back
His two cents about
The pointless amusement
He derived from death,
And a couple of laughs too –
Laughs that would come out
Uncouth, uncontrolled
Like the goblin’s uncertain wheeze.
Watching hazy sunlit streets,
He would try to summon
Some form of
Wholesomeness
In himself – try to ward off
The blind, nebulous irritation,
The sweet, tasteless
Wound of a ghost
In his head.


By Noodle