The Button

Back on my bullshit, fellas. Another poem comin’ right back at ya from the depths of hell itself (or wherever). Hope you like this one about… hope you have a good time figuring that out. Without further ado…

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The Button

Rounded and red,

and still before me

does it lie,

mocking the eyes that set upon it,

and awaiting some foreign pressure atop it.

~

To press gingerly,

or to smash violently;

results do tend

towards the same.

~

Ill-begotten memories

in all their putrid rot

are driven from my thoughts

just as pretty little flowers

are broken in their pots.

~

A thousand little things

that drove me

now a thousand little strings

that cut me

as I fall.

~

Do I misuse the vile machine?

Do I…?

Do I call upon those eldritch powers

that allow me to forget?

To ease that final passing?

~

It is one thing to make a deal with the Devil,

but this…

There will be nothing left.