The world grows weary
Heavy clouds hang low in 1944
Their grey permeates the walls
The deadbeat lies down to die
Upon a sheet soaked with blood
Once so perky, joyful and shy
The deadbeat’s life, sapped from
A husk of skin by the insects of history
A Kafkaesque face considers Francis Gruber
There is nothing to express in those eyes
What must we do with a soul so beaten
Into nothingness, upon a random, blood-soaked bed?
Nobody hurries over to clean those sheets
They have seen enough blood to this day
In the epoch where we waste altogether away.
Felix hails from Berkeley, CA but lives and travels abroad wherever possible. In addition to three micro-chapbooks (all published by the Origami Poems Project), Felix has been published in numerous outlets and magazines and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His webpage is: beyondnorcal.wordpress.com