Daysong

Every day, the composer dies.
He leaves behind an unfinished score
Dangling, swinging, scraping at my door
Edited collected work of the flies
Sated from my corpse, though no more realized
Than the thoughts of my unpaid landlord

The flies that crawl into my mouth by night
Tickle my grin all day
My flesh, an investment, paves the way
For when their forensic larva take flight

My thoughts are loose change,
Ideas are laundry
The world is my pockets and couch
But conclusion is out of range
For I am not me
Until I can go without