Punch-Drunk Poet Meets Chandelier Chin
With nothing but a jawbone, I
unhinge the night, let silence die—
book of broken psalms, toothless songs
of what was right, of what went wrong
beneath the hush of watchful sky.
No prize, no game, no lullaby—
just marrow's oath and blood gone dry.
I didn’t mean to last this long
with nothing but a jawbone.
Still, blood remembers how to lie,
to shape a myth, to justify,
to kill wordsmiths who don’t belong—
the kind who bite and call it strong.
What legend lives, and who will try
with nothing but a jawbone?
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