Dirty Work
the pen mocks me
at times, burning that
after midnight oil,
getting down to
that dirty work
known as poetry
I am clinging to
memories of
blue parakeets
lullaby-ing me
to sleep, until
I wake up
in an empty cage
again, crumpled
pages flooding
the attic floor
I sigh in the
company of ghosts
who understand
the pure essence
of silence,
I keep them
like fireflies
in my jar of hope
to gather dust
to remind me,
Memento mori,
I will never know
my hour
of expiration
I will only hear
the wolf scratching
at the door,
my pen hacking away
at emotions,
chipping little pieces
of me
for consumption
rolling up sleeves,
diving in to
a pierced psyche,
rummaging around
all I thought I lost
(all I wanted to lose)
then a fluttering
of once dead wings
revives the fallen
night owl,
a rush, a gust
of wind from above,
hissing tongues
of doused fires,
the piece is complete
I am covered,
a northern snowfall,
my death shroud,
I am down
to my final sheet
Thistle Thoughts 