my soul is less of
a stained glass refrain
showing inner beauty
more resembling a lost
archeological digsite
picked clean of artifacts
now a pockmarked eyesore
with no familiarity to
the ancient civilization
that once spread bountiful
seeds of hope and wonder

pitted ivory bones
cracked by the jaws of
hungry predators seeking
to find an easy meal
the marrow sucked out
now home to beetles
finding refuge from the
neverending thunderstorms
amidst the calcified
gravemarkers eschewing
someone that never lived

a loathsomeness spread
im discarded cursive notes
expounding upon the joy
inherent in a beauty
that was always just
far enough away to feel
like another dimestore
magician’s kit with a
collapsible wand that turns
into a bouquet of flowers
and a tophat filled near
to overflowing with shit