CADAVER

By Frost

They say still waters run deep, yet still others run when

intensity is offered

at the coffee shop steps from a reusable cup. If actions

mean nothing

save a surface caress, a souvenir trinket for your bedside

dress, is love

just a word to you? What scalpel mentality. Metaphors are

literal here

cannibalism as the symbol and decay as the ballad. Listen

–

we can dig deeper now the grave is open:

Love is a public mausoleum

of memories preserved in

porcelain mugs. My heart

flesh scored to patchwork

their wounds denotes the

word for tender. Tell me,

can you hear it?

The fingers of affection

that burrow in borrowed

kindness till all is skeletal.

A siren’s song that soothes

the scabs of stars with salves

not meant for mister mortal.

Now the moss has come to claim the eulogy. You

close the book, and the poem

dies. What rotten luck it is to care

only for sating the hungers of wolves. Let the

scavengers feast;

it may be all this corpse is good for.

#darkpoetsclub