PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

"Rattle, clang" says he, pointlessly;

what sounds could be gleaned are drowning

in a thatch of frayed wiring.

The greased-rail hinge that is his jaw

withdraws to end the dialogue

before positing a query:

could his thoughts be his currency?

They seem to spring from his gullet

like a slug from an old musket,

but afford him less than nothing.

Through each sale, he is suffering.

He had been purchased once before,

before succumbing to his state,

his age and the wearing of cords,

which he figures might sever soon.