KNOCKING OF THE NAILS
so many tongues
that sweep at air
like witchless brooms,
speak no words,
tell no tales
amid the tenth
moons’ dirt filled
graveyard pale.
stoned bone lay down
to rest
over black petal roses,
perfumed with dust
to smell no more.
groom with bride
where once,
forever and ever,
flowered,
weeded over words as
boxed hands grasp no more,
joined no more,
by the ring of the living
to chime in,
still alone,
still alone.
brownish bitter
once scarlet red blood,
dries, to leave behind
fading footsteps,
the dance of death.
death,
again,
knocks without a thud,
as a doorman taps on
tunneled doors
to pry open
without a sleeve,
without a hand in sleeve,
calling to the cold and the half cold.
weeping willows wear
damp fleshy limbs so haggardly,
as ghostly realms pay visit to
pull under and take.
portholes for incarnations,
like steamed rain that
settles into the earth to nourish
the unnourished,
so to, a glimpse of the past, before reminds of
the tick tock of time,
the peering gawk of wingless crows unfed,
grounded,
watching as a snake uncoils its morbid morgue covered
head.
speak no words,
tell no tales,
for deeply etched letters
guide memory like a lethal beacon,
bottomless these wounds fester drenching every drop of
deathly ruin.
flesh,
flesh
warmed again in thought as
midnight coated cats snug
grass high awaiting the pounce of decay.
away sun, for clouds
are many to your lonesome one,
away to sleep
away dreams
murky
lurking
at cornered streets,
crowded streets
like crowded rows
of inhabited souls.
gasp of breath
unheard and feared
to wake,
to realize one is more alive
in perished chambers
than a smothered moth
twitches so close to light,
all through this endless night.
darkness’
outstretched mouth speak
unspoken words
of eternity,
a dilapidated haven,
a place of rest, for the restless
where ashes thrown above
a void, mince between
settled earth, unsettled birth
of blackened shadows.
others wax of a life as one
is unable to call out,
call out,
liar.
for our tongues have no
swords to defend.
speak no words,
tell no tales,
oh, speak them now
as the bell tolls from
beyond, to snuff out
these tales, these so
omnipresent tales of
yore where ghoulish spirits
circle more and more overhead
to omit
the wit of all.
speak your words,
tell your tales,
before the knocking
of the nails.
​
by peter james billing © 2020
narrated by Sinister McCobb