The Contortionist’s Lament

Contorted chest
Resting on the concrete; a pause
In movement like a stop in a verse.
Twisted soul slipping through the cracks;
The fiery depths beckoning in cackling candence.
Bent torso on a mat begging a coin
To tinkle your cup and ease your questing
Intestines twisting your stomach wall.
Cracked visage spitting venom;
Forked tongue hissing curses after curses
At the cartooned caricature of you
Doing your best to twist your very self
Into a better being.
A contortionist's lament playing
In the dark foreground of the enactment
Of the lost plays.

Let it play on and on;
Proper sound to delve the well of pain
And water the ravaged claey cheeks
Of the aging beauty contorted in misery.