The Restless Poet

I am but a fossil—
an imprint of a dead soul.
Punch-gutted by grief;
a tornadic wall
of shattered, balled-up beliefs.

Clenched fists bore
into my tear-drained temple.
Breathless, shoulder-shuddering
sighs bear down,
gripping the rungs leading to nowhere.

Flat, paper people
flicker
in the draft of their own noise.

Scissored from dull-grey stock,
two-dimensional and razor-edged shallow.
They slice
with pulp tongues
at the granite weight
of my consternation.

I am lead:
too heavy for their flimsy hands,
and too deep
for their cellulose eyes
to see.