In a burrow a snake lies
to itself
about its health,
if lids could cover its eyes
then maybe that would help.
But scales have formed
where human lids
grow on kids,
and shivers have wormed
their way through its body.
When the time finally comes
to shed its skin
what's left within?
Will life's pleasant hums
attract it outside?
Or will the cycle start again?
What was soft, scaly, and thin
has hardened
against the cruel nature I've yet to pen.
The snake always leaves behind its skin.

I can feel your voice
like grooves in a record
knowing the sounds that come out
will send me spinning
along with the music

I'm sitting on my wings
and wondering why I can't fly.
Is there a doctor I can speak to
that'll diagnose my desire to die?

Do you know what it's like
to make believe all the time?
Do you know what it's like
to be stuck between death and flight?

I look up to the sky so blue
and see birds flying like I'm supposed to.
What am I doing wrong?
I raise my arms up, always reaching

for a helping hand
yet they slap it with glee.
I'm not here to cheer though I'm
proud can someone give me a boost.

I think I've got my
wings free.
I'll flap them to this
frantic beat.

Where did everyone go?
I'm not sure I know.
The rest of them flew here.
How am I alone again?
Grounded in the air.

I'm sitting on my wings
they're pins and needles not downy feathers.
They push into every single nerve
each time I try to fly.

Do you know what it's like
to make believe all the time?
Do you know what it's like
to be stuck between death and flight?

Skeletons rage when there’s no rain
'cause their bones have to suffer another day
of shameful decay.
All worms, insects, and maggots
have left with the flesh
and flowers like to wind themselves
around boney necks.
Do you think he knew how much time he had left?
He has eternity
beneath the dirt.
He has serenity
when interred.
But he lays atop fallen leaves
at the edge of a clearing that views the sky.
Will the stars cry for him?
I won’t tell if they lie.
Will the Heavens open up their gates?
To him I think they’d rather hate.
Will the aching bones get washed away
to somewhere only demons play?
I think he’s wary of the angels
and not yet known to those fallen,
except the leaves,
they know him well.
They are his bed and blanket.
His comfort and his hatred.
Bones rattle when the winds bellow.
Lord, it is his time to go.
Please Lord, just let him go.

I do not wish to talk
to you
or
to me
I do not wish to talk
I want
to
be free
I do not wish to talk
to Heaven
or
to Hell
I do not wish to talk
of songs
or
of bells
I do not wish to talk
when they
call
me forth
I do not wish to talk
of riches
or
my worth
I do not wish to talk
on this
godforsaken
earth
I do not wish to talk
for no
one
will listen
I do not wish to talk
my teardrops
are
missing