They're Late

Patchwork stitching stars in the sky:

Blue, green, indigo, violet.

Thread is scarce so you have to use mine.

I’m full of thread, I can’t ever run out.

Fleshy thread in spindles, bloody thread in needles, happy thread in rolls.

The stars are done, my legs have gone
I’m up there with them,

Tiny specks of dusty confusion, turn-around shards; not my heart.

No, my heart is still here still beating, still clawing.


Fast poison, fast sirens.

Where are they?

They need more thread but I have plenty to spare.

What’s mine is yours

Morphine, Anesthesia, Eribulin,

Pimozide, Thioridazine, Asenapine,

Defiance, Shrieks, Orders.

All my thread, it’s yours.

Joyful thread in rainbow colors,

Chunky, bloody vomit around the spindle

In waves of souls dancing in the stars

Where my thread grasps their throats

And squeezes

Where are they?

Oh right,

They’re in the grass

And their blood is in my fingers.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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