my pantry is filled
with
the ghosts of meals consumed
shadows of cravings
empty
of nutritional value

as the serpentine worm burrows deeper and deeper into the hazy gray sky above, cloud becomes soil in which to bury oneself in the foggy chemtrails of last season’s harvest

my soul is cobwebbed
a half painted ode
to false identity
shadows of ideas
empty
of meaningful banter

the emptiness becomes replete with the anguish of insipid briars, thorns where the leaves once flourished among the tangle of brown branches that weave a blindfold

my eyes are closed
lost in memories
that have yet to occur
shadows of light
empty
of definition

harken the harried host of half imagined countenance, for in the bleak cry of the lone Crow perched upon the weather vane of insolent desire shall the world open like a seeping wound

with bloodied hands
bereft of prints
jagged nails torn off
the shadows dance
empty
of common discourse