My Grass Is Dying With The Weeds Poem by Stan Petrovich

No evil intentions
When I sneeze;
No ghost is walking through me
As I toast my handful of flax seeds.

There by the dirty window
Overlooking a garden of weeds
And teetering to drink last night's beer
Holding on to a brazen sneer.

What was parted but you, not the Red Sea;
Perhaps my unwashed hair
As I look at Cezanne's now-rotting pear
And gasp for forgotten air.

You troubled me, maiden.
My pinned pupils give me away;
They in the end hold sway
And then there is a knock at the door.

A delivery, nothing more:
An old friend sent me a parcel of weed.
How it got passed I know not indeed.
But I light some up to see what's in store.

The dizziness, the photophobia
In the dusty air I breath;
This apartment is the essence of claustrophobia
And smells like my deserved death.

Yes, almighty one, approach me, death:
I am sucking up my final noxious breath.
I spit out the damned flax seeds:
My grass is dying like those obnoxious weeds.