RETURN TO SENDER

Frozen in abject terror
Flowing through imbedded roots
Skin curling blackened away
Reveals red raw ruin
Where once was a mask
Never a face
Feel the wind for
The very first time
Then, season the silence
With a sigh,
Cut out your own tongue,
And hand it to the head of state,
On a white napkin,
On a china plate.
Bow halfway with feigned good grace;
This has explained such gifts
As a voice are a waste.