Nerves

Floating to the top,
in cylinders made for war,
broken by heat
and now resting.

Steam rolling opinions
and building to dramatic
explosive
endings.

The hands splayed
in metallic skin
to feel what life was like
and regret it.

Nerves gone still.
Sutured and kissed
with the reverent love
of a madman.

Tensile momentum found ripened
by melancholy hours
and obscene megaly
of head, heart, and soul.

Forken copper and brass
embrace to seal a deal
of god.
Lightning will do the rest.

Timothy Tarkelly has an MA in Theatre from Kansas State University. He has had poems featured at Fourth & Sycamore and New Bourgeois.

Find more by Timothy Tarkelly in the Author Index.

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