At the stroke of mid-night
time stands still,
obscured in the dark,
encased in hollow bark,
and horror that creeps
like all hollow's eve;
Frozen petrified,
confined underneath
wood panel skies,
a deafening silence
underlies
a glass ceiling
-Surprise-
Tap, prod, pat
the panels sustained
by vengeful forces
that hide behind
a birch latch
that locks you
boxed in atop
black velvet-bedded Earth.
Resigned to the bracket
of walnut horizons
that start us
where we finish,
bereaved and missed
like a lost lover's kiss
hardly is.
You are one less voice
demanding,
just one-less foolish artist
wishing to be fondly reminisced
upon
working from dusk 'till dawn,
from dawn to dusk
a robust worker ant,
pawn to his queen's
master plan, your lifespan
framed in the canvas
waiting to be named,
bought for dirt value,
your soul escapes,
welcoming the label,
the fable of You!
Ahhhhhhhhh
they forget the purpose
of your life, your lies
your disguise, your demise
to troubadour their timeline(s)
on the surface
carelessly stampeding
a planetary grave
debilitating
you
to lay and decay,
gasp frantic and mindless,
starved
at the banquet
of life,
to salivate
over scraps of oxygen
that dot your plate.
Arrested
claustrophobic
in your coffin,
fear clasps your throat,
chokes your every breath
like a clamoring death.
Your head spins,
sight dims,
blood slows,
and touch grows cold.
Your skin pales
as you peer
into the blackness
of the end;
lingering
ages long, ages old
wound in purgatory,
the number pulled
from your mother's
dirty womb,
the morgue,
waiting to be birthed
into the catacombs
where you were
hung out to dry
encroached
in your anxiety
you forget
bitter interment cries,
hidden entombment fears,
funeral prayers
that delivered you,
blinded
by the empty sight
in empty eye
sockets
unable to conceive
you deep-six
to rest in peace;
free to do
what in-deed
please you.