With mar(bled) masks and muted eyes
from matrassed walls, the poet calls
his voice is nails, his gaze is stone;
alone in ash with ink he wails.
But our sycophantic ears are closed
for keyhole stories, darkly told,
for whispered truths and painted tears.
We hand him drumbeat lullabies.
We hand him silent songs and pillow-guns.
He slowly slips and snares,
the noose at hand: a tightened vise
its jaws are wail of walls,
a lethal dose of tender bricks.
Eighty words exactly for Mama Zen’s prompt at toads. Seems to work with the Blood of a poet inspiration.
September 9, 2015