Widow Wake

Look at all the fair weather fouls

Flying away

In blurs of wingtip steel,

Blood maroon

And yawning grey

Practicing their hunchback posture

Empathy riots

An orgy of desert dried eye flame

It is all a garish parade

The grotesque faux sympathies

Such laboured rot

Terminal conversation

Pushed by force

Through lying lips

Ruby red iniquities

Black balloon doom and ballroom drop

The widow’s pulsing bosom cleaved regrets

Chew through midnight sky

Loaded with stars like coal teeth

And martyred time’s beast

Births a sandpaper tongued priest

To dish up hollow platitudes

Though skull sunken earth

Up to the stagnating ceiling

Collecting each bored syllable

Fierce to eat up his plastic flower words

The widow

Just waiting for death’s black ice crush

The widow

A lap dog eager to massacre the air in circles

Flashback knives murdering the bobbing skull

Blindfolded visions

At her bedside chronicles

She whose droning bee sighs

Sit musty and staid

Where they will lay in apathy’s grip

For a thousand years

Or more

Long after the wake

Long after the eating of the tombstone cake.