torn muscles hang from the line
|
sun-dried, now it's time for the feast
|
and i wait in line with plate in hand
|
but you've eaten all there is
|
and my bones weep
|
|
(i was never meant to...or maybe i was...)
|
|
head raging and i'm so tired
|
can't stand any more of this
|
for when the state of the living
|
is as the state of the dead
|
such disillusionment is the end
|
|
painstaking - every move a labor
|
gnarled and ravaged bones protrude
|
and i want to smear the disease across my ribs
|
in the name of the father . . . atrophy begins
|
|
(i was never meant to...or maybe i was...)
|
|
left here, now on this precipice
|
sun-dried tendons slide away
|
into the cracks of desert sand
|
my skeletal smile begs for more
|
|
(i was never meant to...or maybe i was...)
|
|
but like a trestle underwater,
|
i drown too.
|
|
-----------------
|
atrophy
|
| Autumn |
