Walk, arm-deep in pockets
My shadows glide along like a Don of Death
The smoke of drying morning dew on the lawn
like my jaw dropped down. And my soul leaped out.
No more pressure, no heat in my body to keep it in.
No more soul. To keep my body warm.

This wool of an apparition.
Spooled into its tapestry
coughed out like a hair ball.

But then the question becomes;
was it dry all this time in the depths of my stomach lining?
Or was it wet, with all my sweat,
everything sweet, I had eaten?

It would swell.

Sent from my spent well.

It would leave.

As everything soft, that was once lost.
Cashmere that would pill
With holes removes no one could fill.
With desires I could never quench or quell.
With the crushed pulp of what it meant to feel.
As an orange that I had planned to peel.