Poetry | Journal

A ripe gripe smacked in tacky spit through thin lips,
a wet grape pressed tight between old mauve stained fingertips,
inflection a sharp vice,
clenched teeth behind my eye.
Tugging the cardinal tether,
the demur within the protest has spiderwebbed,
shattered feathers.
Poignant, myopic, idle, distorted.
Complaints so shallow, amplified
as if of great importance.
The sound of continued cavil,
is a hammered wedge congesting my mind.
He dissipates a mental estate, unloads,
clouding my state of mind.