Jealousy It Is

The very portrait of a broken word,
you languor sanguine ‘gainst a tear-stained hall.
You can’t pretend anymore that you are strong,
or convince yourself somehow you still belong.
Fingers slip as the weakness starts to smell
like purple mjyk sizzle from a shattered ward.
You try with all your fright to justly sink within
the folds of freshly trimmed and lightly-salted rolls,
but it’s so hard not to whimper when red.
Skimmed like a magazine, flippantly read.
Flirted like a dirge and you’re dead.
What priest or pasture will have you now?
Doomed to Hell or soon a feast for the cows?
Where will the big girl go when she cries?
When you run out of shine in the fight?
Why can no one seem to help you refill?
How does your head and heart live when empty and still?
Who, then are the vultures still scraping your hollow skull?
What do their hungers call sate,
Enslaved to the nagging of their fruitless bellies?
They claw and carve to the marrow of your pate.
Tongue for meat and eyes for jellies,
They take and take and take and take and take and take and never slake
The arid throat of their only skill.
Can’t you feel the passion between your toes;
There, where the carpenter ant rubs its hardened nose?
Luscious red has gone to black,
and back to the hill, you return to the grind, distressed.
Your stain is an ichor mess
all down the dandelions peppering your green and yellow grass.
I think the neighbors saw not a ping.
You listen to the moth and the dew ring
in your ears a frothy goodbye.
Steel-determined to not, you try.

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