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Rescue Me
A Poem by P.K. Winterway
The cold of white washes color from my mind,
Bleeding strands of hollow, faded furloughs
Of imprisoned demons, blacker than pitch, set free —
Such is the yin and yang of a bladed boomerang
Circling to slice my heart in two as I breathe shards,
Raspy inhalation, wheezing with utter mediocrity.
Like lungs crushed as aluminum cans,
Nothing pans out, just the waste of psychic landfills
Piling higher and higher into Heaven, choking the host —
Only to hear the muffled seraphim sounds, begging,
Pleading, fighting, fleeing, fawning for some sort of redemption
That will never come for those who deserve it the most.
I am the outbreak. The pandemic. The spread of decay
Of demons at play, frolicking in the crumpled-up burnt paper
Of remnants of lost circling souls, frail, tattered, and frayed.
Like yesterday’s newspapers — forgotten.
But remembered, yet fragmented. The question remains:
Can I find all the torn pieces for my soul to be remade?
Pierre Roustan 2021
