THEATER OF ENLIGHTENMENT

my face is a dead mask

my eyes are open gates 

to emptiness

my hands are woven

like a shroud of curtain

acting no action

strings of veins flaps

with a quiet, slow preludium  

chores of rotting tissue

-  soft song of putrefaction

when the clock strike midnight

pendulum of my jaws slap open   

 the show must begin 

with a warm wave of worms