A rusty plow cuts poor at first,
but as the earth is harsh traversed,
the steel reclaims a shine.

Waiting,
Wailing,
Weeping,
Watching,
much and more was wasted here,
the meat all gone to moulder.
No more dreams to feed on here,
no coals left to smolder.
I have been dead for far too long,
far longer than I lived.
I focus on that one good day –
that shimmer in the sieve –
and at the hour when the moon looks down
the world admires her horrid frown;
I laugh and shriek and scratch my arms and
try to think up greater harms and
outside, outside, the snow lay silent
streetlights whisper:
the dead riot.