The Rooster Crows

This silence gapes Nero
Into our burning obituaries,
Which we carefully
Polished and embossed
To reflect our face
When we peered,
Like off a tall building
Into wheezing traffic,
Objectively in.
My bookmarks are blowing,
Curtsying to court jesters,
And I forget myself,
What I am about.
There is a point
To every season;
Some have accepted
(I may say cajoled)
My wriggling torso,
And I am pidgeon-holed
To a specimen board,
Which feels something like
What crucifixion must have,
But I have yet to bear a cross.