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Unpolished Ink May 2021
A creepy entertainment
made out of melted goo
never trust a waxwork
just who is watching who!
A C Leuavacant Nov 2014
I've seen a lot of rain around
lots of thoughts and pain around
But cannot hear the sound around
Of heartbeats on the dusty ground

Lovingly made but never found
And Like you nothing too profound
But still true enough to form around
To have a crowded crowd around

Still with only you around
A dead wax doll thrown on the ground
Tears and that old haunting sound
Of rain that falls from all around
bambi Mar 2013
Waxwork crystals
on window panes
and ledges
collecting sun
in precious hexagons
to return
illusive light
of feverish summer
to an earth that’s
lost its luster.
Move as though on castors
Swept in to subdued void
Pierrot lacking puppet master
Shrunken waxwork melting
            I rivet in two eyes black blue
            For a scrap of validation
            Mirrored tunnel dark chute
            Deep abysmal contemplation
Blether. Prattle. Jabber on
Deaf ears nescient; inattentive
Blithely callous their indifference
Never yet shall be emotive
             A flashlight glare. A glint?
             Volt? Amp; electric neuron
             No never see; pulse, or breathe
             Frigid flesh left life extinct.


©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)
On entering "that" room! the "chapel of rest", mortuary, morgue.....and looking for something...anything....a sign, some life, some electricity.....nothing left! Waiting...for...nothing!
Katie May 2022
A puncture
Leaking life through suture
Surrounding existence
Dying without a chance
For worthwhile meaning
Or rebellious screaming
Against the institution
That perverted your prostitution
For it's own benefit
Uncaring if a flame goes unlit

And so you're gone
How brightly you could have shone
A mind so effervescent
And a life so incandescent

Waxwork drips down
A colourful wick burned brown

And a single plate
That can carry no more hate
129
Whit Howland Jul 2020
who are you
she demands

i answer her
with silent letters
and vowels

my voice
left years ago

on the last bus to
Pittsburgh

Whit Howland © 2020
Echos of WCW, but an original.

— The End —