Oh, cry the soul
whose heart is
spindled in spider webbing
or jarred into
an airless flask
of bitter wine
or mounted
on a breathless painting
imagined to life
from brushes of pigments and turpentine
or pierced by
cactus- spiked words
to poisonous ends
or martyred to the fate
of a hangman's noose
or forgotten and marked
"John Doe" on a census chart
or found still as stone
inside a rocking chair
alone and iced
born to live and die
a loveless life.