Ceiling Over Mute

I am hollow

boned, not knowing

what to fill

this vacancy with;

I fly straight

through the sun, watch

the wax drip

a dotted line

for my plunge.

Scribble, scribble

with empty handed

pencils—their melancholy

gray of my eyes drenched

in apathy misting over

the windows to a space

empty of I don't

know what. Just cover

the pages with

swirls, curls

indentations of flames

and a matching bouquet

of smoke. My head

is tilted, pouring

out whatever might

be left through holes

drilled in my skull

by my hot handgun

of fingers. Sleep is not for

me and day clashes

with my skin

so leave me

adrift, a cold-blooded

reptile in a plume

of graphite-grey

smoke from my cigar

burns across my body;

let my lungs shrivel

into blackened stones

I can skip across

this smooth, cold sea

and maybe then

I will have something

to say.