Spiked glass
wind chimes
commit suicide
in the breeze.
They will
swim together
when the rain
forms a puddle

broken melody
swansongs
pooling in
silver stagnation
slipping through errant cracks
of desolation

nestled in disaster
ruin a hymn,
a slip of the tongue
along jagged ends.

Ache
and squirm,
feel the worm
slowly
sift
from south
to north.

burrowing through rocklined barriers
aching
for breath
the warmth
of the sun once more
sightless and crippled
by lack of limb

sputtering...
stuttering...
wings
fluttering.

Did
anyone
really
ask
for...
this?