Ex-Ventriloquist on the Moor

The ladder in his throat:

Rung-less, greased.  His voice—

Now unformed whimper—

Festers in his ears.  He wanders

In a fog that stinks with wound-

Wort and wonders how long

His body will last when he lies

Down in the peat.  Will he

Decay once for each of them

Or become bones in days—

Organs proving empty

But for the voices’ carrion

Inside his lungs?  His lips

Splinter.  His chest clatters.

His heart is not his own.