wicker fool

i can’t help myself
from tracing the edges
of my lacerated soul
plucking at the tattered
wisps as they dance
in the constant swirl
of the ceiling fan
reminiscing over the
fingers that once
plucked the strings
across my blistered
tender remnants in a
soothing song of succor
tinged with painfully
sharp reminders of how
those hands slipped
from my tenuous grasp
leaving another frayed
edge i am afraid will
unravel my wickedly
wickered countenance
a scattering of twigs
roughly formed in the
shape of man once worthy
of the tactile attention
in those faded adorations
little more than tinder
to be gathered and burnt
in effigy of new horizons
greasy ashen stains all
along the surface of
an empty vessel languishing
in a loneliness of one

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