And the mind is a powerful thing,
Sharper than a knife;
Mine strives to cut people out;
One by one.
With each silhouette chalk-outlined,
A new cake cutter is drawn;
A man-shaped trace lane out
Across white papered floors.
And the mind is a dangerous thing,
A labyrinth spiked with closing doors,
Tantrum prone;
Mine looses once and locks them out;
One by one.
With every snap-scissor-shut,
My paper-chain folds a man longer;
Stacked like secrets beneath my bed
And the mind is a curious thing,
I sleep easy above my burial ground,
And easier still.
The collector;
My romantic hands are ruby-dipped
moon-slicked and warm
As they take to my shovel;
Lessons will be learned
With bones for me to keep;
Row by row,
Proof of guilt lies below me;
2ft wide and 6ft deep.
