Milk Thistle Cries

Tight layering of fernented
despair, necrotic tissue a
collection for the pyre

Tattoos and scars a coloration
depleted,  can be seen with
your head cocked to one side
Sleep,  in your peculiar ways
Joy,  carved into your bony
appearance,  a reflection
of the vile things,  that help
you dream

Vultures,  pick apart choice
memories,  freeze dried and
punctured,  by stray needles
raining down from
a piebald sky

Losing bits of your alluvial
green as cross draft mirages
 fade away  to nothing
Milk thistle cries as you grin,
and snort her,  through your
decayed nasal
Chasing prickly powder with a
 shot of diesel fuel

Old ways sealed with steeping
hemlock  held together with
 sutures patterned after the
sections of your bleached skull
leaching out one hundred year
old joy onto the black canvas you
hold close  to your shriveling heart