Urchins of Deadcast

Urchins of Deadcast

by Richard King Perkins II

 

Because.

 

My frown lines are as dark

as cold sap; fit tight,

 

a drill sunken by the magnetism

of grief.

 

It’s alright to be humorless.

 

You subtracted my solar plexus

from the punch of every constellation.

Still, you tried to find sorrow,

sought to apologize,

 

tried to tell me

of the ferret caged inside you.

 

You’ve become colorless

as the urchins of deadcast.

 

Now it’s respectable

to laugh;

 

a sustained fluctuation of sharp stones

and barrenness.

 

Loose sleeves aren’t necessary

for pinecones to appear.

 

Allow the smiling quiet

to keep its quietness

 

lifted by the finest sieve of dawn.

 

 


Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL, USA with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage. He is a three-time Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best of the Web nominee whose work has appeared in more than a thousand publications.

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Author: The Slag Review

A quarterly print and online lit mag

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