tiny corpses
are about to air, about to leave
flawed regal palaces of wither,
bones and sighs in flame, auburn
and deep spreading bronzes
cots aren’t quite the summer stooping
wheat they should be, even spiders
unfurl their cotton intriguing homes,
and frost is nourishing it’s blow soon
rust trumpets upon sudden breezes
gaped with melancholic music, bees
are staggered stillness in memories
of strewn stiff pollens
the hinge of flowers is bust and
dismantles unseemly gone off gowns,
conclusion is all about like a prelude
of rot, the stood are bowed
the mosaics of beautiful, the patterns are
being broken, there’s sleep about everywhere
beckoning, if you wander now you’ll soon
be gone
canopies, their sutures and stitches fall
as if blood had been written and told
to diminish, how many strides deep
are you?
so this entire minute is finished, well the
clocks did warn of troubled skies ahead
and those that are awake will be buried
in shanties of dysfunctional hearses
piles of nooses where poems are riddled
disengage the root’s tallness, consider
the mausoleum swollen and seeds
have been spent and ruined
there’s not enough of heaven to cast
it’s spare eye, so ignore the butcher’s
easy scythe it’s sweep it happening
like a true blade of winter’s gnarled aim
there’s fallen and echoes pinned into
statues of being watched, pneumonia
starts it’s prowl and stalks it’s first
73 year old sheet thin antique
like hand prints dropping, like filigree
almost see thru’ masques, flutter like
caught gasps there to clothe
the quiet in skeleton cenotaphs
flawed regal palaces of wither,
bones and sighs in flame, auburn
and deep spreading bronzes
cots aren’t quite the summer stooping
wheat they should be, even spiders
unfurl their cotton intriguing homes,
and frost is nourishing it’s blow soon
rust trumpets upon sudden breezes
gaped with melancholic music, bees
are staggered stillness in memories
of strewn stiff pollens
the hinge of flowers is bust and
dismantles unseemly gone off gowns,
conclusion is all about like a prelude
of rot, the stood are bowed
the mosaics of beautiful, the patterns are
being broken, there’s sleep about everywhere
beckoning, if you wander now you’ll soon
be gone
canopies, their sutures and stitches fall
as if blood had been written and told
to diminish, how many strides deep
are you?
so this entire minute is finished, well the
clocks did warn of troubled skies ahead
and those that are awake will be buried
in shanties of dysfunctional hearses
piles of nooses where poems are riddled
disengage the root’s tallness, consider
the mausoleum swollen and seeds
have been spent and ruined
there’s not enough of heaven to cast
it’s spare eye, so ignore the butcher’s
easy scythe it’s sweep it happening
like a true blade of winter’s gnarled aim
there’s fallen and echoes pinned into
statues of being watched, pneumonia
starts it’s prowl and stalks it’s first
73 year old sheet thin antique
like hand prints dropping, like filigree
almost see thru’ masques, flutter like
caught gasps there to clothe
the quiet in skeleton cenotaphs
