Jabberwocky

Your tongue is tied,

cramped from its labor:

lip-service and laments,

twisting prophecy from parking tickets,

doom from unloaded dishwashers.

You monologue like a thundercloud,

over breakfast,

foretelling despair,

in the sogginess of cereal,

and how the day didn't start off

with just the right tone,

the sun glinting through the window

wrong.

Every spilled cup is symbolic

every sigh a soliloquy.

You speak in psalms of pity

as if your calendar

were made for tragedies,

names written in expo,

scheduled to take turns

making you the victim.

Imagine the audacity

And when the world doesn't end,

exactly on time,

you sulk in darkened corners,

complaining about the shadows,

as if the loneliness your ego creates

isn't an apocalypse of a different kind.

The intent behind every word I utter

spun into serpentine silk

within your ears,

so you paint me the snake,

accuse me of hissing,

when all I have done

is refused to speak Jabberwocky.

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