The mortician danced on my tongue last Tuesday,
He whispered, "You’ll live, but only for the wait."
I spit him out in the form of a god—
But who’s ever seen a god with a bellyache?
He laughed and said, “Is it the living or the dead who starve?”

I asked the clock why it wore no face—
It said, “I’m too tired to be remembered.”
I asked the mirror if it missed my reflection,
It answered in silence and showed me the color of regret.
The sun blinked twice and fell asleep,
And the moon just sat there, knitting time from string.

I told the moon, "You’re just a lamp in the sky,"
But she giggled and spat out a shooting star.
"It’s all just gas and light," she said—
But do you ever notice how gas can smell like fear?
I blinked and suddenly, I was both alive and in the grave.
And the worms—they had no faces, but they all waved.

I swallowed a thought last Wednesday,
It turned into a comet, then shattered...