My Skull

A misshapen orb
Hollow but not cavernous

Sits silently on my desk

Blankly brooding

Disfigured by an extrusion
Where starkly white blades
Mock the fleshy covers they once had

And I imagine
The movement
Lucid and languid movement

Of these elements

Adding volumes to the creases
And layers to the folds

And we converse
This yellowy orb and I

We talk about the novel
We talk about the ancient
We talk about the never, the forever

And when I think we have run out of things to say

We talk about
How I will look
When reduced
To a misshapen orb.