Poem: Beneath

 

Behind

 

human faces share ancestry

with imps that feast on tepid meat,

 

such that what goes on behind them

is often rotten,

 

dull appraisals and meek thoughts

festering below the cranium

to spark then fall moribund,

 

as if tureens stuffed with nothingness

tottered on the stilt legs of zombies.

 

our fidgety human cheeks . . . 

unhappy as sun-bathed nightcrawlers,

stretched over swiveling, staggering racks of bone,

 

how much different, really, 

in the squirm of their expression

than the obligatory task of maggots?

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1/29/24 .... mods

10/12 ... fixed grammar error

Terrible time for our country, add my own heath woes, and now job troubles.   It's a cruel planet most of the time for most people.  I suppose it's possible to be lucky, but only if you close your mind to what's beneath.