Frowning Moon

The grass is a bunch of shit,
lit up by baseball field
lights and moon beams.
I have trampled it
with the erosion
of my routine.
It is a broken palace.
It is the place where
sparks are silenced
and diminished
to a dust by
the virulent foot
of my anger.
I cannot control
the way that I
feel now
or the way
that I have
ever felt.
I have
never felt
this way,
the way
that I conquer
even the grass,
so at once
sad
and bent
towards hell.