PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Buzzards have come again

while I sit in sin

to pick the scraps of hell

from my bones clean-bleached,

wires have been cut

so the signal sent

was wasted

the blade sharpened, now dull,

What's next for slumbers?

the triple six is anxious

an itch you try to scratch

but the small of the back is a terrible place,

Am I lost in conversation?

If I say what I mean

no one will agree

and I'll reserve myself to isolation,

This situation resembles a disease

a contagion on clothes

you try not to breath,

Sterile particles flying back and forth gracefully,

Marble slabs make a great place

to press my face into

and slide it across till it comes off

in an explosion of red genetics,

The buzzards, The wires, The evil grins

I'm lost in it

Ate up by it

and now I've lost the remote.