Haircut

Kept company by a sweater of rust and an audience of cobwebs

The machete sleeps deeply.

As if it was startled by the mere presence of my ideas

It falls to my feet.

Contemplation begins

Correct decisions have developed an allergy to my soul.

Held in my hands

I begin to slash.

Gravity takes center stage

While everything around me blurs.

Then eyesight becomes a thing of the past.

My sense of taste and smell have been replaced by iron.

I hear nothing but my heavy, almost calculated breathing.

Winter’s wind dances around my spine.

I am not new.

I am not old.

I am just over.