Chalk Outline

There are no more straws to clutch at
This coffin has turned to mud
My shoes are full of sharp fish bones
My hair a barbed-wire flood
The sides collapse
my scrabbling claws
I bite my tongue
it tastes of nothing
my teeth grind yellow
against hope’s black flies
I am the corpse of the idea
of a man of a man
I am a spectre
of self-told lies

February 2019

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