dithering the ripped parts
what if
once you found
your song
you were buried
in it
hither to
coming fro
life goes
through parade
and charade
pretty well
these days
of grease
and ease
the comforts
of all our long
boxes of death
no wines
no roses
left to salve
all the holes
in our vests
so, please
keep the animals
a happy part
of what the soul eats
I mean plate
to harvest
is not
always
with a scream
says no zombie ever
though in weighing clever
to curtain
I almost exclusively
choose both
ending up
with sticky fingers
and a constant blood thirst
dry rot for clothes
occasionally people
digging me up
boiling, broiling
baking, slicing
searing, selling me
for the snap sound
my skin will make
when bitten into
EJR ©
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