lucky no. 8

How close we are to death itself.
A shear cliff. A tight rope walk.
The blind hear its call, and the deaf see its visage.
Why always black? It's full of colors.

I feel the decay and wonder,
we are only a few chapters into this novel,
hardbound. Smells of leather and dust.
The arch of my right foot has given way
collapsing under the weight of my body.
My bones stack one on top of the other,
my skull rests atop this mess.

In their sockets
my eyes are heavy as billiard balls,
red-striped number nine
and lucky number eight.
Knock it in, see your score?
I left my scorecard in my other pants.

How corse this hair is.
Ripped cuticles unveil fresh life,
young and weak, like the newborn calf.
She calls for her mother,
wanting nothing more then to
return to the womb.
Wanting nothing more then to
run as far as she can from this place.