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thepensword

whale bones

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i am walking through the carcass of a whale

there are great bones around me, massive ribcage—

they are towers, or bars, or the walls of a home.

is there marrow within them? or poetry?

i thought the whale would fade after beaching but it did not—

when it did i thought it would wither.

perhaps it did, but the carcass remains;

i am walking through the carcass of a whale and wondering how long before the wind carves the bones to dust.

 

farewell to the orange sky. farewell to the cicada call in the summer evenings.

food is still good past its expiration date and

sometimes daylight clings beyond the setting sun

but when the midnight comes,

will it bring waves to cleanse the beach?

when i return come morning, will the whale be gone?

 

i whisper poetry to the inside of a whale carcass and wonder how long i have left.

 

 

~~~~~~~

((AN: there's a weird, half-life atmosphere to the slam now. it's like all the rats abandoned ship but the ship hasn't sunk yet. the slam was supposed to go down but it's still here and it's like walking through purgatory. it's like it's here but it isn't and i'm hurting to see how long it will last.))

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