Untitled

Poetry Drafts / 28 July 2023

I comb my hair roughly.
My five skinny fingers
Carry soil under untidy nails,
Dandruff cover my shoulders
Like snow on late November days.
Old skin and old scars festering,
While I blow my trumpet
You blow my trumpet
– away,
And I comb my hair
Backwards
With lard like a loony loser
With five digits protruding
Like shovels
Fit for winter rain.

About The Author

Hayden Veil

In an earlier incarnation, Hayden Veil enjoyed a successful career in software engineering, writing late-night poetry in pursuit of sanity. On 2 February 2020, the world of Hayden Veil changed: Ghosts became real and with its soul laid bare there was no turning back from the perpetual path of poetry.