Poetry · Writing

Silence of the Lambs

sitting in the bottom of a well

and the light is my anchor.

holding me together and holding me down-

the slightest of rope will tingle down-

and be ripped away.

the light- looks perfect from here

a land explored and forgotten

a chance to stand and create for the martyrs.

soft to the touch

skin so vacant the air marked as trespassing

contact of these cold bricks is the warmth

of the sun and quiet of the moon

all in a convenient place.

The rope will return-

dangle and pull

the climb is always short-lived

before cut down.

the links of time crawl like worms around my toes

and I’ll shove them down my throat

to taste what could be-

before death can come near the rope will return

and dangle.

 

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