Coffin

My head is a coffin  
and all these voices,  
all these noises  
are just the nails;  
 
and I am the devil  
I am the driver  
 
The wind,  
the sick smell,  
the eerie shadowplay  
are but transitions,  
[font=Verdana]props.  
 
The toad leaps  
and gets caught  
in the wire and sizzles  
as it drizzles,  
a fitting transition.  
 
A lonely dove sits  
and coos on the headstone,  
the solitary traveler  
sleeps well, within.  
 
I sit next to it as  
the dove flutters behind.  
Gravity is just  
and the grave is the host  
and I am the act,  
since the white screen;  
curtain call is due,  
 
to be followed by an encore.  
 
My head is a coffin and  
you are a blur..[/font]