somewhere along the hidden lines
of where your bones find unity
you’re waiting on what’s not there
slow death counting down your ribcage
squirming against your insides
what is there to pull from?
but the dirt and gnarled roots
encircling your enfeebled heart
where have your thoughts lead you?
an incessant taste of sick
pressing against your throat
it holds you like a drought
dead leaves choking out the gutter
rumination straining out the colour
pale sunset pink scrying
through pressed crooked teeth
you’ve allowed yourself a candled wake
a practiced state of mourning
for everything that will and won’t be
so thoughtful, so foolish
bent into the shape of everything
you could ever hope to resemble
except for what is you
rotted, mangled, distorted
/// 