winding, twisting, curling, fraying
ropes tangle themselves in between my fingers,
dripping red for passion and blue for despair,
veins slinking out of my skin like nervous snakes,
and the hollowed plaster called bone follows after.

a myriad of jesters howl and hoot and holler
and then drop to a deadly whisper.
they say i should die or something because
the joke only runs for so long before it begins to grow old
and mold like a hard piece of bread.

and the snakes weave trails in the dust on the ground
they tie up my legs as the ropes ensnare my wrists
the jesters hush, watching with diamond eyes
if i try to look into them for some sort of answer
i may as well bury myself before im disappointed again