Epitaph (Poetry)

Shapes strung tight on wire
                                hanging stiff in the breeze
                awkward — black as rooks
                                                shot dead — they mean no more
                than feathers — hold no weight
                                swing indifferent as mere words

Skull-empty of last breath’s
                                long-expended disease
                when a fresh corpse might mutter
                                                blue murder all in vain
                no truth is ever as unreal
                                as the blurry newsprint lie.