Skull
M
Mark R Slaughter
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My skull
Is not alone
And were it so
Would our dead be dead? -
Blood black-red -
Glaucous on their bed of death
Subjugated
(That omnipresent
Black-hood) -
Soon for flesh to rot,
Dry off the bone,
Let skulls of other faces roll
Together, casting o'er the sands
Of death-life moulds
I'd cast my yellow eyes
Left-ways, right-ways,
Down:
Depthwise
A column
Bathes -
Fluid soothes;
Élan-sways oscillate,
Emanate sense
To oversee my soma
As I rouse
Through tones of being,
Motile of mind,
Rills of
Warmth
Run a pulse
In vessels
That ooze out
Their flow
Myofibrils glide,
Haul together:
Lock-release-lock;
Their method brings
To see me writhe in life,
Perform survival
I look up:
The apatite walls
That lock in my brain
Grey out the view
I crave
This quiet room supposedly
Accommodates my ego
As clock ticks to tock;
In time
Inside my death between the gears
That whisper oddly on the knell,
I come to terms
But only in the confines
Of life within
Out there
It's just another Hell
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2014
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