Saturday, September 12, 2015

wishes washed in memory

The hours bend around you
Curling like a snake to pull your blood deeper into your bones
Until it touches a secret dark red
Filling your sight
And the golden shines liquid
 leveling a cool shade of pale
Tipping into you
Till the burning settles flames into coals
And simmering water
Traditions built on bones
And burnt bodies
A fire feasting on flesh
Leaving echoes
Motions and moves in a dance
The dance of life, death
The heart
Beats slower…the raining building to a
running ravenous river
Has flowed itself out
To a minor trickle
The languid liquid line
That never

But tells tales
Tell ME tales
about how the dead holds me still
But not as tight
How I am accepting that I will never be held
That way again. It is really ok.  I’ve felt it.  I’ve tasted it…been there
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want it again
Of course I do
But it’s not there
It’s a ghost
And some don’t ever get to even see the ghost
Let alone feel it
Taste it
Touch it
Become one with it
Flesh and bone
quiet and screams
All together
Tasted in a sour soup of
sweet tangy