Author Information
Statues That Breathe
Ask me for a composition
that's made of silk and compost heaps.
Demand of me a word or line
that validates your smoke and ire.
Consume of me my finest verse
and digest it with a sweet red wine.
Take from me my need to love
and leave me bare and petrified.
Between the words that dot my eyes
is space alert of its own bitter lacking;
and it's always crying for attention,
as if a feeble, toddler thing.
The wailing may not be what gets you,
but among them there will be no rest.
Beyond the veil of cool contempt
is a marching fleet or hornet's nests.
I am likely works in progress
that will gather dust and trapping leaps -
eventually a cast-away relic
that's given pass due to some small charm.
Imbibing little besides the clouds
and doing little beyond the setting sky,
I'll slow and settle to a crawl
and collapse at the most opportune time.
