Ply

There are monuments in my mouth,

minutes by men who’ve paved destruction.

Wrought lines of rehearsed rot.

 

I’m parched now

on these invisible paths,

and clerics who’ve gone before—

inflicting purgatory for penance, needled in pain—

are lost.

 

I’m found. A fossil.

Bones resilient of ruination.

But there is no moisture in my mouth.

No blood. No organs. No veins. Just bones–remains.

 

© Grace Black


imageNational Poetry Month begins today and this is Day 1 of NaPoWriMo (Though, I veered from the prompt today. Forgive me). 30 poems in 30 days. Do you dabble in word play as well? Let’s create 30 in 30.

Love and Ink,
Grace

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