My Fossil Poem by Mark R Slaughter

Bowels in pain

Thro' wrench of torsion

Call down to
Death's open mouth

Calls back
Thro' woody tongue
Renting drum

He hears

The hideous craftsman
Frames out a box

Comfort for the corpse
Eternal

Thoughts infernal
Open wound of mind

When I carbonise
Fossilise

Will partnered parts of oak

Betray

A sort of cloak?

SU LPH UR

Through the stench

Hell

Drizzles
Upwards!

To go

I croak.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2012