Devoted To The Man Upstairs

Devoted To The Man Upstairs short poem

Photo by SamboD

He exists beyond my senses

my body is drawn to corners sometimes
spaces blocked by load-bearing walls
yet most often to windows
at early morning hours
when the building opposite
is barely illuminated
forbidding as a cliff face or a gothic manor
a profile of shadow we both watch
overseeing those sleeping souls
or plotting some permanent mishap
slow percolation of mutant leukocytes
cells in the heart wall dying of starvation
the old saw of a repetitive dream
buffet of guilt and anxiety
we observe this pageant of unconsciousness
for hours of cold skin and suppressed breath
until floorboard creak signals an end
shifting weight as his attention
is drawn away so I creep to my bed
until I detect his gravity again and try
to make sense of his actions.

Rate the poem
1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (1 votes, average: 3.00 out of 5)
We are posting your rating...

Have something to say about the poem?

Profile photo of GlenDodge

GlenDodge

Signup / Login to follow the poet.
a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
Poems you will love

Give your feedback / review for the poem

Be the First to Comment & Review poem!

Notify of
avatar
wpDiscuz

Radio Man

Radio Man short poem

Back in the Summer of eighty five thank God I was still alive music was filling the streets as I chilled by the strip here’s the trip many girls were dressed with flames both were not ashamed the innocence of

Tears Of Man

Tears Of Man short poem

Tears of Man You have the right to remain silent. Do you make the choice or remain violent? Do you evolve and become more civilized? Or do you choose to stay belligerent? You choose to be healthy, like you are

Old Man Sitting

Old Man Sitting short poem

The bones are brittle as are the thoughts they crumble events of yesterdays that never happened things that happened not remembered today becomes another time faces and events mingle become a crazy quilt He sits and stares unaware of a

He Is The Man That

He Is The Man That long poem

Who said that dawn doesn’t know him? Yes … Who has said that? He is secreting night when the sunset flows to poem end ; the flute, which surrendered stealthily to the day song, it runs away from the maze

The Man

The Man long poem

The pressure in his head at times was unbearable like a vice clamped around his forehead having it twisted a 1/4 –turn at a time and when he finally thinks it can’t get anymore painful then bad timing comes around