Dolls

Where?

Where are you going?

The ground-

Spectral and mangled in

These dusted cracks,

That show a quiet black;

Our ceaseless lines of Driftwood,

Laid silent in the sand.

The sand in which weeds loll,

Weeds that cede fever its gills.

Keen be these hollows,

Stare too long-

Go on.  Squint.

Permanency hides in them like shadows.

The reaction leaves me in sweltered, itchy rust:

Fictive we are in this pave unchanged.

The thought Iron wrought,

Clad in suede-

Cracks you never fade.

Catechise me with my question,

I’ll crookedly secrete in mutter

-cracks-

Beside them I’m immured,

But on them, never am I lured.

Simple enough-

I know

But that wasn’t my questions discretion.

No?  So I ask myself this:

When splattered cracks-

Are no longer a quaint innate mosaic

But filling of every edifice,

Resembling whole antiquities of broken us,

Cobbed like air looms-

Chronologically lined up like cuffed culprits

…or genes we save for our children;

And all pluripotency can do

Is leave us dolls,

Sat aptly on our shelves…

Where?

Where do I go then?

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