For a Long Time

Cold fingertips
I’ve been dead for a long time,
little more than a gift
for the field mice,
for the beetles and rooks.
Cold eyelashes
I’ve been down here
for days and weeks,
while everything is
thinner on my bones
than it had been.
Cold everything
I’ve been singing,
but maybe the language of ghosts
is harder to understand
than I’d ever imagined.
Save me; I’m hungry, and alone,
and I don’t plan on
being either for long.

No tags for this post.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Go ahead -- say something. Anything.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.