Anonymous

I tie feathers
to deer antlers
to keep out
bad dreams,
the scratches on
my hands are
in the shape of
wagon wheels,
fret boards,
dead president-actors.

I once tried
to carve hate
into myself
but it skimmed
my body of water
like an oil spill.

I've had three lives.

One as Pompeii—
ash eating into
my scars.

As a butcher
I sliced to bone—
threw up Technicolor
into a king's throne.

In my first
I lived as a mole—
blind & running
into walls,
living nightly
as a virus.

These deaths
were planned
blitzkriegs on
the soul—
polka dotted
& gas masked.
Scorched Earth Policy
carried out until
a new mind
grew from
the soil.

This is a game
of telephone—
it meshes into
new truths
with each passing.