there’s nothing left from line to line,
as each word consumes the next
like prophets marking “x’s” on calendar squares,
and mathematicians feasting upon the sum of our selves -
bounding like fleas,
tickling feathers between the wings
the seraphim feared to spread and draw shadows,
like a tombstone across the sod-turned feet
of a man not worth the effort.
tears fell but no flower bloomed
from the crumbling soil
swept aside like eraser dust by a *****,
and patted down across a heart
that cast its beat in time with the shovels “shucks”
in excavating a soul at the cost of its weary bones.
time ticked despite the hands
wrapped firm around the hilt
of the driven-dagger
frozen somewhere between the three and four,
and teeth found each other like cogs around fruitless gears,
that’s sole ambition was to wind its own fate
around the process of begging alms for the ink
that mere poets came to bleed
upon his blessed crown.