My head is, an inch, near a loop
Of a hanging rope,
A tear is, on a verge of my eye,
Upon slipping.
My soul is ruggedly drying as an
Oat bread
Ascending its fragments with
Umbel’s nectar to
The lunar heaven.
I begin to swallow my breath,
My heart started lisping, my skin prickling
With reflections of the day,
The noons open their mouths
With every mourn lament.
I launt myself down as I usurp death,
I took his power when my chin touched
The indelicate halter.
I am rigor mortis now.
WILDsound Writing Festival 