four pumps of pulsating madness
i feel the summer in your veins
nooses hanging on our necks in the fields of dandelions
we swing
lifeless
from the sycamores
audaciously

three beheaded scoundrels
gather round with fiends
make friends with the dying oceans
from the mezzanine
our bodies look like melted statues
wilted to the breeze

two lovers guiltily isolated
barefoot on the gallows
holding each other’s hands
making entreating expressions
ostensibly grieving their fates
through crooked teeth

one stubborn rope
incense spewing from our tongues
as we breathe our last words
and stomach our last breaths
pertinaciously we dissociate with the
stern world built around us

zero souls standing
above the sycamores