The Rattler of Keys
Carapace of fake smiles—
eventually the day will ease into a long permanent dream,
a ghost ration of sweat lying in my eyelids
folding the years where timid stars hide
This dream is dying
and it has asked for my body.
It wants me to jump in the river
and search for an ocean inside a rose.
It burns my skin until there is nothing left
but impotent verses reaching for the stars,
suffocating. Run, go tell the jailer it is time for the execution.