TICK

Everyone is dead
While my core tick, tick, tick
Ticks like a fat baby
Floating for breath.

Shades of owls and razors
Slice and screech in my sleep
Pressing me to cut
Loose from
You
Him
Her
Them
This
Everyone.

Tick, tick, tick.

© Mel Lampro
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CONCAVE

I’m an artist, a dreamer, a drifter, a slave
To the pressures that squeeze me until I’m concave
Like a mirror that flexes away from the light and
Only observes what is written at night.
I speak the language of whomever is nearest
My chameleon tongue chides the hearts that are dearest and
Closest to me yet, I cannot feel love.
It’s the stranger who weeps by my grave, my dove
It’s the stranger who weeps by my grave.

© Mel Lampro