Hands Freeze
my fingers no longer onboard,
rejecting the design,
callous toward volition.
on strike, protesting the boss,
crooked cripples stuck,
vulgar in perched, harsh hunger.
they are bars of a cage,
preventing the trespass of any priest.
claws of a vulture--
for flesh is nothing
but a construct of candles.
clockworks under follicle and pore.
we are creatures of sparks
and one by one, the sparks cease,
snuffed out by the runty staves of time.
we are wards of a frostbitten shepherd,
the gravedigger of physics,
herding our numb thoughts home.
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5/26 ... awful poem.. trying
12/29/25 .. cosmetic stuff (which it never is ...)
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