Creaking bones,
Wired lungs and
Tightened skin.
Recoiled in faith
Of nimble limbs,
A brass heart and
Fickle water in
Your rotting veins.
Fleeting feathers
In your mind. Whispered
Thoughts bickering loud,
Hollow and still like
The autumn wind becoming
Frozen and stiff in winter.
Violet haze in summer sun,
Bruises green and iris blue
In the dark hours of spring.
Give into fantasy in the night,
Wake in the morning empty.
Burden your soul with a
Heavy stone, with paper walls
And a feeble spine intersecting
Down through your bended knees.
Unjust is the way your shadows
Consume this foul blood, your
Bated breath of wicker spoons.
Silent are the hills in which
Your neck churns sideways,
Voices hush and ever bare.
Twist your hands, worn body
Cracked and set in stone, a
Desolate carving of your own.
Lay me down to weep what is sowed,
Some minutes from now and I'll be
Gone. A faint echo in the walls.
Time is a senseless being, after all.