Boxing With Ghosts

The wirings are shot.

It is this unholy business

I find myself dragged to the depths of.

Faith & whatever else whistled by

on the steps we tread to here.

My prose is off, severed at the hips of birth.

I am in a losing battle to right this dispatch,

of which, don't kill the messenger.

My knotted lips, twisted in indecision.

Spindly, recanting the line I drew

while teething these past days.

Born to be born anew.

I know what's in my chest.

I know amber fills my lungs.

Carved into a museum display of rare

breeds stitched into time.