Empty pages left to fill, unless they're left alone, then they fill my grave.
Empty pages smashed around my dead body, filling the small spaces under my elbows and behind my neck.
They are crushed beyond being useful, the creases eternally crumpled in, like life for me is.
Perhaps it would have been better with bills, unfurling from their rolls. Gently springy to the touch of my old bones.
Until it's shredded. Soft currency paper turns moldy and disintegrates like wet tissues do.
Faces or lines around the trim, it doesn't change the real feature of the dead. My beautiful face gone, bones in its place. The skin eaten only far enough for the ears to remain. The truth of the future, the true face behind the mask. The dry sockets where there will never again be rain.
YOU ARE READING
Poems 1
PoetrySmall collection of thought-ticklers. Take some time to understand the world in a mad hatter meets English professor kind of way - yeah... I think highly of myself.
