When the canary died

He lied to her
in words so intricate that they corralled
around her and enclosed her skin; entrapment
of the sweetest kind, the sort one could never find
in poetry nor chagrin.
 
We spoke in hieroglyphs
because we could and because the language beckoned
with silken fingers so silently tapping
the keys, off-key, off-pitch,
that they never left prints.
 
She wept to hear the hush of complete absence.
 
We couldn't help it, we swear; disquiet clouded
a hive mind and we wept, too, to see you there
in the secluded shadows
of what you were.
 
A spider tiptoed across the floor.
I tapped my foot; he ran
directly to the door and span a web of correlated farce
bejewelled with folklore. We cried
out for corruption, but never made it far -
and so, perhaps, it was a blessing in disguise
when the canary died
before we could fuck the earth, and so kill time.
 
 
 
 
https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4mvoox/a_list_of_i_loves/

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