dead on arrival

one day, they'll see
the incantations aren't working.
the tea lights have gone out
and that chalk-star blew away
along with the dirt it was drawn in.
they will pick me up from the side of the road
and tie me to their best intentions;
but it only looks like freewill as i flail in the wind -
and so, they release me from my puppet-dance.

that cheap perfume they showered me in,
labeled hope, has worn off
and they've begun to smell like death.
they will realize i was stillborn
under the light of a vengeful harvest-moon.

you cannot resuscitate a heart which has never beat
or sing someone a lullaby when they've always been asleep.
the wool will not be pulled over what's dead -
it will not dream.