Monday, June 5, 2017

paint and rust

there is an old stairway
on the terrace,
inviting death -
paint peeled,
skins revealed,
growing rust,
disappearing
a little everyday,
into itself.

and there is a voice
that looks the other way,
to life and living,
thinking about shrouds -
how to paint these skins
to last
as long as there are eyes,

when the nature of everything
is to rust.
to mate with everything else,
to change and be changed,
to die into the life
of this glowing, growing dust.

blue throat

every time
I feel a lump in my throat,
I see blue,
I feel blue,
I taste blue,
I hear blue,
the fabric of waters
held in the folds
of Her palm,
for a moment or two,
enough for the poison
to become the medicine
I need ,
held and then released
into the red
of my breath,
emptying everything
into nothingness.

Friday, June 2, 2017

and she walked

and she walked,
walked away from it all;
no looking back,
no tears leaving a trail
to where she was,
only water
held in her womb,
for all to drink,
and sparklers in her eyes,
lighting up her world
with a fierce love,
that speaks
through the hiss
of embers
washed with rain,
and the smell of burnt skin
ravaged by the flames
of her death trail.