A Grave I, Myself, Dug

I am listening to stereo with only one ear
and lookin' at three dimensions with just one eye.
I stand, facing a cold, cutting wind without a blanket,
smelling your flavors through a stuffy nose
and tasting your aroma with an icy tongue -
only good for biting out acerbic remarks -
as my snaggletooth mouth snarls a grin
which can only be read between the braille
lines drawn across the linen draperies
closing off my mind's synaptic connections.
I play guitar with fingers cut off at the first
knuckle: tipless, insensitive stubs, unexpressive
and lacking a pulse. I wade through thigh-high,
melting, snow drifts on rickety legs: nothing more
than flesh and bone, all muscle tone withered,
becoming a willow, tearlessly weeping
from inside a coffin in a grave I, myself, dug.