she was ghastly
and beautiful
twisted and gnarled
and I couldn’t turn my gaze
her alabaster-dusted
barnacle-crusted skull
visible through
chalk-frosted
socket-shock frazzle
her eyes sunken
and darkened
and splayed
listless
tho slowly churning
yes, restless
and familiar
bulging-echo pits
the color those shadows
found skulking the corners
of regret’s rusted-spade
squared-edge graves
thin and wishful
she ate perilously
chewing in tedious ovals
swollen knuckles
shaking spilling forkfuls
and I watched her soul leave
slithered, through volcanic pores
fled, through aching crevices
left behind by lovers’ swords
and I watched her soul return
and then flee her hunched cadaver
again, and several times
the final time, not yet arrived
learning, over and over
of dreams’ futility
and she sighed, weary
a deep trembling
rewritten.
Oh my goodness. What a flood of words and ideas. Yet, more like a tying together of streams, each distinguishable as they flow, than a torrent of a river impossible to divide. You say in another post that you’re not a poet: this is not true. Keep being the poet you are.