THE PRELUDE

Bang your head against the wall
And fall
For reasons beyond your grasp
Only to beck and call.
And always like the ways
The stench of putrid days;
One stares at burnt bottom of pans,
While somewhere a pantomime plays.
Numbers on the pages you hold,
The clammy dungeon, the cold
Monster stands scythe-handed
For your life is sold.
The lullaby from the mouth
That silently shout
And stick out tongues to lick your face
Into a mesmerizing doubt,
Only then to slice you complete
The pleading bleat
Of the stab of your pen through the heart
Like a knife through dead meat.

What a start
To the beginning.