Tolling Mercy Poem by John Weber

Shards of distress pierce me
when probing memories for
          purpose in mournful
deeds; stingy cords dangle
from teetering curtain rods,
          begging me to pull.

Macaroni starch drips into the
sink in slow drips, marching
          along with pattering
pings in the tin basin, making
my yellow eyeball quiver in
          gelatinous custard.

Somewhere within pools the
glint of creation in devastation:
          equals of bombast
never sharing purpose. Blistery
palms press on my shoulder,
          propelling me on,

past acres of debris and
superstitious domiciles hiding
          friends long spent in
selfish conquest, distorted in the
glow of giant, dancing screens of
          worthless, dazzling light,

over valleys carved into once
lush marshland punctuated with
          sporadic honks and chirps
until overpowered by the mechanical
roar of turbines whirling in steel
          safety cabinets locked,

into gothic structures etched with
archaic icons, taunting with brash
          esoteric energies until my
mind surrenders logic, divergent
timelines and mortality to kneel,
          washed by absolution.