Empty Bones


Empty velvet bones
Drained of all creativity
Your marrow has dried up
I lick the residue off my fingers
Boiling in the blue heat
My ear drums rattle with the air conditioning
I can't hear my bones
My spine is wilting with exhaustion
My fingers curling with frailty
There is no electricity
Coursing through my veins
As my thoughts are heated and served
On a blue ceramic plate
Mashed from the verdant fields
Of Ireland
Hearing what I want to be hearing
Seeing what I want to be seeing
Somehow not creating what I want to be creating
Tied by the shackles of my most tormenting thoughts
My brain does not breathe
My body does not move
A model of fake moss and stiffened clay
The moss is spreading
The clay is cracking
And the temple I created
Is caving in

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