To a Crooked Old Man

the past
dies slowly

it clings on

its nails
buried deeply
in skin

to find a strangle

through wind
and weather
it lives on

but in slow due time

it will die

starved for attention
it shrivels up
and sinks
into the waiting mud

there is no funeral
for the death of thoughts
that never should have lived


Help support my poetry.

Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

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