My head is full of fingers, that you drag across the ground. They pull the dead from the bed you tread, with a scraping, swooshing sound. If I lie dormant, belly up, with my fingers to the sky, Your lesson is learned, foot to head, I return, it’s ‘name of the season’ time.

I'm holey and hole-some. A sugar ring that fills the coffee's need, a fried savior when mornings bleed.

What does the maker not use, the user not know they’re using and the buyer doesn’t use it

Ice cream cone on my head, less logical then a giraffe. I'm basically a horse with pretty privilege

Black, my blood, In scrivenings old, Darkness in murder, In paradise bold, In some ancient scripture, Ballast to the soul, Minimal purchase, If measured in gold