Nothing but a head upon a stage,
Sequestered by mounded plastic snow,
Naked there for all to see,
So you can discourse with my soul.
Held up straight with chicken wire,
Beneath baking lights and paper moons,
Hope to see an inner fire,
A waning life lost far too soon.
Rose red lines kept my head alive,
No shoulders to prop the nothings said,
Pouches drain through open eyes,
A hungry crowd that must be fed.
Silent fall down cracking walls,
Proudly girding a messaged thralled.
No comments:
Post a Comment