#poetryisalive

Deafened ears 
Silent eyes
Rippled waters—
Reflecting murky skies

What remained
Laid in sullened tune
—With calla lilies
In godless demise

My organs wrung
Then clotheslined—
Like some
common rag

Discarded lungs—
Airbags for the worms
And my
once sharp tongue
Sits ’tween teeth
Delicately dead

This damp cavern
Punctured by 
A singular watery tree
The branches splay
Beams of light

Where I lay—
Skin haloed 
in mossy wreaths

Crank me

Jack-in-the-box

Cricks of rusty parts

As music tinkles

Softly

Through floorboards

Dusty as the attic

And the locked chest

From where it came

Your fingers could

Draw lines

Into the age

Of that wooden box,

The one

With a precarious lid

It delights in your touch

Waits for the skip

Of your heart

When anticipation

Is empty

And

P O P

.

.

.

.

The spring dashes

Firmly into your eye

A lone thing

Without a clown’s company