Stillborn

Dull winter morning

the sky is flaking, I lift

this ponderous creature

from its resting.

It is in the need for writing,

write a confirmation of yesterday,

today, and tomorrow.

They have not changed.

They will not change.

Much is the same.

The dog bite scars

have not healed.

The hollow wonderings of death

echoes still as a voice

knife sharp through a muted tunnel.

This love is god awful ,

allegorically dead.

Dead yet stone beautiful,

dead like a stillborn child

whose placenta needs only to follow

making whole the death.