This is a stick house, a lifetime old,
I built it myself,
Room by room with quiet corners,
Roof chewing on ominous grey clouds,
Oozing the drought,
Whistling wind, wiggling the earth dirt,
Tossing up the worm to fish in a clay bed.
It has a window and a door,
A dirt cellar in the ground swell,
No prayer book, I wanted to see by my own light,
Withering in the dark throat of the night,
I do not know much about god,
Nor stone churches — they’re all to blame,
The wind cries in the graveyard.
These bare pickings — doley handed,
I eat my share of the marrowy scraps,
Like a bug’s mouth eating a wilted plant,
And drinks the dust from an empty well bucket,
From a stony hole in the mole tunnels,
Cold and dark dark dark in the underworld,
I met one once, loitering and tired.
Rusty nail smells in the rotting, darkened chambers,
My nostrils are aging in a boneless breathing,
Down-turned face in the shadow of a mirror,
My voice half-heard in the bowel of stillness,
More and more my words are my epitaph,
Yet illegible on a headstone in a dirt filled plot,
Soon I’ll seek solace with the dearly departed.
Copyright © 11/02/17 lance sheridan®