Calling the pendulum of the quill black
in my pen’s autopsy—death by ink,
metaphors and hanging participles.
Staring at stars in a Mason jar
and insanity’s pepper sprout,
my tongue’s a gallows.
So I write until my heart,
is a forgotten alphabet,
fluttering in a birdcage of ribs.
With apostrophes curled like beasts,
waiting for the worms to translate,
even crows have to eat.








Cleverly penned, Adagio. Excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, Damian.