The Last Laugh

The last laugh still on my lips

Coughed out

Like some provincial kiss

I hold my breath

My fingertips

Cold                                                                    

It is an art I have not perfected yet

Moulding

To trace the angles and edges

The tongue in the mouth

Like a stone.

It has endured centuries

Of apathy, curiosity and abuse

Cracked

To let the mind pass through

Feeling, with haste

The shattered teeth

The roof, the rivulets

Above, beneath.

It does not have the time to eat.

It tells itself

For  there is a finer thing unwrapped

Like the chime of bells

Once to the metal were so fondly clasped.

There is a task.

There is a task.

Is time passing or am I

I raise life’s hand

To my mouth, by the wrist

Though the skin as dry

And the speech sits

And silence fits

There is the last laugh

Still on my lips.