my head is attached by a sliver-string--
swinging, like the tires in spring,
it scrapes the floor beneath heaven harshly--
leaving bruises and marks drawn darkly,
and like Dumpty, the doctors tried to cling
head to body, but it never wished to be a whole thing,
so it dangles below knee ever so tiredly--
collecting scars as if lying beside a howling harpy;
inside me, i can feel the dirt begin to sing,
somber melodies of an ancient and rotting king;
he stands beneath me seeking a heart-beat--
whispering of dreams now sunken and obsolete

for now he wears worms for rings,
and I'm forever cursed with this sliver-string.