Immaculate Poem by Anthony Liccione

Sometimes I think my wife has lost it, slightly where she doesn't realize it. Drowning in her collection of fingerprints around the house, the madness of dust and dirt and debris, three sheets out of her mind blows with the wind. I think my wife has murdered her lovely peace, the sanity between the realities and lies. Like that tiny left over carcass of a bug stringed in a cobweb, where a spider sucked the life out of. I think life had beat her to her senses, and she stays dangling dead in hopelessness.