I walk among
miles of wilted brush,
getting cut from thorns
where blood didn’t need
to ever rush.
I have been losing it,
for the time when
I won’t be needing it.
There’s this sand
falling through
outstretched hands.
There’s my fingertips
burning like the edges
of melting candles.
Beyond the grave,
I’ll find what I
failed to save,
forming warmth out of
a forgiving fire.
It’ll melt the ice
that wrapped this torn,
shivering body.
It’ll merge me
with a hovering storm
I’ve kept awake.
The soil will follow
wherever the tide goes,
as I sink under
history’s flakes
of skin.
Leave a Reply