paper skeletons

.

.

.

it's sunday morning, the pink dahlias

are dying and the april leaves

have perished in the

boneyard of my veins

.

a spectre hovered above my head—

its songs victimized by the

darkness, giving birth

to sorrow

.

i used to bury the obituary of your

words in the cemetery on chapel hill-

their ghosts, wrapped in body bags,

hung upside down a mahogany tree

.

they kept reaching for the

corpses of stars

in the third paragraph

while resembling

a tin can heart

stuck in a black hole

.

men in white ski masks played a

chainsaw melody on top

of a brown coffin

in our memory

.

it's sunday morning, the pink dahlias

are dying and my firewater eyes

are dancing to the evanescent

soundtrack of your breathing

.

and your words have faded

into paper skeletons

.

.

.