Hope is the thing with feathers
In its teeth. It dogs you in the doorway
Sarcoptic, fleas, starving soul
bared to each stranger he meets, a stranger
to your heart but not the streets
The pant starts soft, slow
Starts in the kitchen, the spoon
Swirling in your coffee, cream
Gets louder as you try to read
Low and heavy, the pant, a chant
In your bed, your head, you rage, rant
Eyes open, nothing to see, it's closer
Sour puffs against your face, each breath
A sickly sweet, like tea, like hope
Like abscessed teeth. Your lungs
your chest, the taste of sweat
Dry mouth, heavy tongue
It's a death sentence, it's a song
In your ears, in the squeeze
Your heart makes when it dawns
So close, you see
It's been inside you all along
A response to Emily Dickinson, you know the one. This one's a bit of a mess, but why put up a front?
