I woke up as a dead balloon,
not deflated but worn, smelly, rotten.
Green liquids meant to kill me
slide up sides, leaving air, testing,
boosting optimism.
I woke up dead but the world scores me
worse than dead,
suffering anguish
from long-ago ancestors
who danced drunk in dark streets.
The drunks pull out my guts,
throw them on windows,
and I feel a death
coming on too slow,
not dancing but flooding
streets with shame.

*************************

I posted this one for One Shot Wednesday. I’m not certain that it has the right kind of darkness, but it was dark when it was written.