They’re like you and me though they are thinning from less than our bodies as if existence stood outside their frame, an extension of such sagging garments and wrought iron flesh absorbing survival. Each one an outline of the next, a procession- hushed backdrop, busted picture frames fallen from dreary paneled walls. We trace their jagged inhalation back to a limitation outside of our reach. They’re like you and me though they are like composers without a sense of time, bent fingers dulled with a weakened pace. Their demise, if it were visible, might absorb a different, more profitable noise. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman Touch Starvation in America
(The Weaver's Song)