Candy

A poem
by Astor W. Heinemann

What will I do with all the mountains of
Candy I've collected?
They don't make me happy anymore,
can't find joy in playing with my guns,
my needles or volatile liquids.

A presence mortifies me,
I can sniff it all around the house
and trace it like a hound dog if allowed to,
but it won't let me.

Just below me, hiding underground
pushed and pulled as mood dictates.
I shouldn't care, I'm made of stone
but I have been reduced to sand
by the candy eating grinding machine.

Candy doesn't lure it in anymore,
I sit and eat it but it's not sweet
so it now stays in a corner rotting away.
put me in an hourglass, I'll last until
the last grain falls down to join the rest.

Let Huntley Haverstock report my demise
"Mysterious sludge of sand and molten candy
found in run down neighborhood home,
owner nowhere to be found"
and it will take pleasure in knowing
what it's done, laughing at the newspaper
on my behalf.

It will come back and devour the sludge,
have me for itself, to form a part of it
eternally is it's purpose, Candy tasting
sweeter than it ever did and no one
to pressure it into unnamed things.

Ende.