Monday, May 7, 2012

Death is Near

The white ceiling
caves in a crash
to settle on the reeves
of your ridge,
your silhouette
sketches your skull
to single out the skeleton
the smog hides the sun
from your soil
to stain you
with a swab of soot.

And then you see a casket
chiselled to contain your cremains
the noose has quietened you
and you hear those last words
"Get lost, you slut.!"
the creeper has fastened
his fags on your form
your bones are beaten
to the pride of poverty
your water has been
eluted from the ether
death is near
and there you are,
free in your feathers.

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