the Forest
there are whispers in these woods
they call
to me Breathing
sweet nothings
born from blackberries
and figs The promise of purpose
pomegranate seeds
mashed by molars
mystifying It’s alive
and breathing
though the exhale doesn’t
stop
and the air has runs
and the lungs don’t
e x p a n d
between trees
the metallic clicking
a painful
gurgling The mouth of the forest
opens wide
stealing air
blood
body
from my soul
o u t s t r e t c h e d am I
doomed to the final moment
a death rattle
Leave a Reply
Be the First to Comment!