The labor of grave
appearance
served by making
the pity of the served.
Shat not be fire
sure not be for the
sham of all the substance
that renders us burned.
In the backyard,
the seat of which
we are told we are
born again and again.
It excuses our trespasses,
our emergency allowances,
our how hat and a defunct cat
that dies beneath the porch.
Body parts across our
hearts mean nothing in
the slither of the hidden,
the burden of our shame.
Lifting the large coming is
a significant bare, something
that left out of the blot of
the current blank, never come.
I miss that which is away
from me, that which allows
fantasy to run wild, and how
reality grows up so fast.
