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Stone

Untouched is my reaching hand,
Unmoving are my eyes
Unbeating is my hardened heart,
Unbreathing are my sighs

My body is a monument,
A smoking funeral pyre
A place where pigeons come to nest,
In ashes from the fire
An oozing birdshit waterslide,
Where once were teardrop flows
But curses never leave my lips,
So paralyzed I pose

My arm outstretched in hope of wings,
A coat rack it becomes
My head upheld in hope to sing,
My stoney lips are dumb
Grim reaper of the spirit nears,
He's knocking at my door
His voice is sucking life away,
And chanting 'never more'
My carcass cold, devoid and black,
Is trailing from his sickle
I fix a stare in Mt. Rushmore glum,
My face is on a nickel

And like the mafia underpaid,
He moves without remorse
When presidents carved in the mountainside,
Awake with the head of a horse

Pinnochio had a wood pecker,
A penis made of wood
He sanded on it night and day,
But couldn't change his mood

Unfeeling is my hand,
Unblinking are my eyes
Unbeating is my heart,
Unbreathing are my sighs
Unechoed is the thud,
Unempty is the womb
Unliving are the dead,
Unopened is the tomb

March 15, 9:32 am
Copyright 1998 Michael Paul