towards poetic ends
Dead as a Dormouse
Little nervous ball of expired wire.
With two lightless obsidian pools
No longer holding reflections —
Staring lifeless into the heavens.
All motion and movement
That once filled this tiny morsel —
Now deflated — with a feeble final exhale.
In a secluded moment
Inside the shadow
Of a coiled emerald garden hose —
Where death beckons in isolation
Taking what he is owed
No matter how small the prize.
Matty Kopf 