Beast and bone tower in dead zoos
without fail, each time a skull that housed a heritage, antlers angel wingspan
fractured lines fermented shifting permeance
presiding over dark and crumbled earth, beetle-shelled glint, rotted rain
melted you away in every stride, chocolate carcass left us hollowed eyes of someone who
saw wars and cherry wine flow bitter from the mouths of flies
bolted down through yellowing joints, strung up in a new world and I,
the furthest from magnificence, can only gaze upwards in imagined genuflect,
and in our visits the displaced may comfort the dead.
Meg Mulcahy is a writer and poet based in Dublin, Ireland. She copywrites by day and has had work featured in Crêpe & Penn, honey & lime, GCN Mag, and EMPWR. Her blog lives at www.socialseagull.com where she writes about everything from witches to Ariana Grande. You can find her on Twitter @TheGoldenMej and on Instagram @goldenmej.