At 6:10 AM

The hand sitting on my dresser is holding a struggling human form in its fist.

Snapped securely between
thumb and forefinger,
rough skin and
crunchy bones,
it wails.
The crying heart lingers
but a swift smudge
or soft caress...
could it end?
Lifeless screams
peel back the flesh
oozing drippy,
slippy,
sticky,
soul.
Silence.

I think this is a very excellent poem for such an early hour.