Oh, to Be the Dirt

Have I not sharpened
my tongue on moss-stricken rocks
while resting my head in
the very naked day that
broke the chains
eating away at my dirty fat
as I wandered heavily
in the sweat stung strength of spring?
This gifted stanza wrought gab,
rising from folded paper wounds
screaming of shadowy names,
has battered me on my atmospheric back
closing in the curtains of a the day
like dark-dressed stage hands
about to set scene
for the most wonder-filled play of them all.
I cut the membrane in front of me
with this pointed pen
and aforementioned tonuge
to let the blood of marvels
run jagged through my eyes.
I puncture the veil
of this doomed two-eyed vision
with the sharp edges of the notebook,
and I slash and dice my limbs
to let them fall on the jeweled earth
in hope that they too
will crumble like the leaves
and become the better
part of my descriptions.