My faint white wardrobe
Opened with two scarlet handles,
The clothes are on the inside,
Cotton, some silk, housing legions of you.
I stand choosing, indecisive,
Combinations cluttering my mind;
Colours and kind blinding those eyes
That powder into black sand
And put space, that deep desert,
Between my right ear and my left.
My head emptied: death to life to death.
Meanwhile, yellow-striped moths
Crawl out your mouth and mine too,
Line after line, not a few; trillions.
They eat, feast on evening suit to the right
And darned brown cape on the left, even the least
They bring to inexistence, their evening dish.
To drape, I wish, on beggar's garb, I wish.
I'm stood staring at my
Empty wardrobe, no say left;
I am right naked,
Exposed to esposure
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Comments about this poem (Moth-eaten Mouths by Sandy Player )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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