Shaped

Prominent shoulder blades press beneath chalky skin,

Framed by shredded, wing-like patches of shadow

Spreading from the hunch in his back.

He always toys with his projects so violently.

His arms shiver, the cold dirt in his hands being kneaded

With myopic ferocity.

I always enjoyed his smiles,

His reticent lips, sutured shut, dripping yellowed blood

Onto that dry dirt.

It was nice, since I'm always so thirsty.

He flattens the ball of soil,

Then tears it, a small spray of bloodied spittle

Escaping his lips in his excitement.

I get nostalgic, sometimes --

It's so different now.

I tell myself what to be,

But death seems so much less certain.

Now only the dust will embrace me when I become dirt.

It's more difficult this way, more shapeless. 

Reviews

[Ravyne Hawke]

Welcome back! What a stunning poem! The imagery is amazing, as is the flow. So this is what death looks like.. the shaping of us back into dirt? at least that is how I am reading this.. I could be very very wrong. lol Love this nonetheless.