Pious of old skin
shed by the sycamore roots
hanging loose without a tongue
cut
off
the
slumber of this
aetheric umbilical;
who
tethers? who pushes?
who pulls?
limbs of otherworld
I’ve collected nothing
from all the shattered
promises — only their
shards m, memento mori

A field of marrows
where death wishes
have gathered &
left, have grieved
& farewelled

A bed of comeuppance
amidst the nocturnal
sweep of nowhere
once the sentence was done
deed of ancient life
roam no more, as am I

To only be asked
the trigger of the unsang
such is so long, indecent
tragedy of the one who
is too tender to bicker
O ther wi se —

© D C de Oliveira || January 6 2022 || Thursday 5.43am
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