draft

my skin is thick with dirt
my tongue
a lump of sand filling a dry marsh

their bones are every where.
flesh still clinging to ribs
skulls
with jaws hanging wide
last breaths
taken deep
before their death.
*******************************

it's not finished, but I keep forgetting about it unless I actually post it.

Just a first draft.
But I wrote something.
*********************

Bloody leaves
of Japanese Maples
sigh and sway through the ocean breeze.

Heavy with rain and salt
they slip into the quiet folds of
gravity - the death of the dreamers.

Humans could only hope
for such grace
in the moments of decay.

To let

our tiny veins
break and spill into the soil

our lungs
breathe into the roots

of Maple Magick –
hungry for experience
and rebirth.

Today
the wind called me.

She found me
spread bare
on a slate of granite.

Her finger traced my skin
down my soul
drawing wings
from my spine
pulling me

to the North

The aspens swayed in my direction
Her voice
whipped through their branches


A love song

To the death of art and beauty.

This is for writing, and in hope that my deamons are dead.

Be patient, little sparrows. I am in recovery.