holes

there are little holes in my words.
which sparks of light might
poke their heads through, 
and much do the lies and
molten truths rejoice.

 

for sake of mine. for
the gangrene of youth.
for the thought of age
as it crumples us all
like brown paper bags.

 

holes in my words,
in my socks, in the
in the in the in the
in the...

 

repeat me over and
over again, till my feet
have all but rusted
through,

 

and a lavender scented
sheet is drapped over
my nailed down corpse;

 

even so,
may my words wriggle through.