Iron Will and Oxygen


All my unused muscles
in jiggling heaps.
All my faulty feelings
disinfected in the sink.

Worn-out wisdom
and anger like a leak.
Overused voice
that barely squeaks.

Freakishly long fingernails
that can’t scratch
away the date.
Spiky split ends
and silver friends
like foreign contagions.
My memory’s busy
making bad decisions.

I’m just a bag
of contaminated parts
quietly catching dust,
but that’s what happens
when a body rusts.

© khartless 2021, All Rights Reserved

“For if a priest be foul, on whom we trust,
No wonder is a common man should rust” – from the Prologue of The Canterbury Tales

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