In the belly of sentient beings are
black holes and worms,
Postures;
worthy and unworthy
gestures, raisons d’etre,
longings,
tentacles of regrets,
fuselages of desire below
puffed-up bloated hearts
poked-through
with sticks and twigs;
red and blue blood
wrapped in twine
hanging from
meaningless empty bottles
of preparedness.

This is where the soul sits and rests
hanging from the nearest cavity wall
until the last chime rings
announcing,
“Times up!”
where the door slams
and the whistle blows.

Suddenly
there are no plans
to make, no
hearts to break,
no solemn longings
half-baked.