I am bone china white, wearing a death-mask gauze,
I am bones spindled in dark air;
Weeping stiffened in an abuse.
Pigs blunt in a beating,
My heart won’t start;
They smiled and smiled me to a numb.
My tongue is quiet as a stone,
My nerves are a glassful of dead worms.
Limbs, images, cries; trembling hands stupidly
Staring for help. I am not a smile.
The gray sky lowers, I burn a pitiful candle flame
Flickering in thin air;
Light enfolding my face like burial linen
In a still place, poured into a six foot hole,
My soul is a bride to an end;
Black hats in a graveyard, closed mouths
Red and awkward. Pallors of hands throwing
Dirt in my face; I am in a long coffin of tar colored oak;
And the priest with a wormy smile,
Gray suited and still.
For a minute the sky pours into my grave,
I swallow it like a lozenge of hope.
But there is no hope, only the crude earth
Breathing like an old dreg, taking me for its wife.
Copyright © 10/06/18 lance sheridan®