can you hear me
underneath all the
mud caked up
against your
ears? strings hang
limply from your
mask as it
pushes out
casting a shadow
over your hollow
eyes. something
died here
i think. i can
smell it in your silence
does it hurt
to sit there and feel
nothing? decadence
decays faster
than modesty
when all your sentiment
is pasted and glued
between postcards
and pastures
on the heavy pages
of photo albums
empty
other than pictures.
how long has it
been now?
how many minutes
hours
forced responses
and isle seats
has it taken
for you to
realize that nothing
grows here?