Cutting Edge

walls of corn limit my
vision, as mind and car
proceed down roads
at 94 miles per hour.

love’s death was
gruesome, splattering
from her 454 cubic inch
egomania.

she left me, dumped me
threw me out the window like
her mentholated cigarette
butt.

the ashes and sparks
falling and tracing
the path my soul
might flow.

I do know,
that my soul doesn’t
set forests on fire,
like her evil cherry-glow.

sapphire torrents
falling
sizzling and steaming,
smothering the
fingers of orange heat and
the blackened trees.

the smoke
rises from my coffee as
I sit behind cataracts
drips, percolating
up my spine
to my mind, out
my eyes, off
obscuring the curves
of ink on the paper.