Yard Sale of Thoughts

Pity they put men in the earth,
where it takes so long
to pick ’em clean.

I’ve had my fill of rock and dirt,
when essence rots,
lost evergreen.

Winter clings white to marble stones.
Footprint arrows
point the way.

I have no use for flesh
nor bone, but hunt the jewels
I can inlay.

Wingtips tickle soul,
the guardian loses grip.

I slurp noisily from the body’s bowl;
extraction in one
swift
cord
snip.

For what was pure is stole,
coins poured liberally from
the usurer’s purse.

I gorge on the graveyard’s
brightest beings.
Death has given birth.

©2025|K.F.Hartless

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GloPoWriMo#9: Today we’d like to challenge you to try writing a poem of your own that uses rhyme, but without adhering to specific line lengths. For extra credit, reference a very specific sound, like the buoy in Hillyer’s poem.