reblogs

perhaps I have lived too quietly -                                                       things died in secret, faraway as the world,                                     slumped haphazardly over vanished paths         where did the wild grasses go? the wind touches nothing now - the hills blight themselves in factories, branches                                                                             brood themselves into speechlessness - after so much time - this loneliness -                                                     and the quiet                                                       hollow -                                                                             am I changed? do the birds still lament their soft colors,                                             is everything - like the tower -                                 defiantly empty? My weaving Starts to scrape against itself for want of better, happier stories - beyond the limp gaze of falseness -

I watch the insects carry the equivalent of all my small, human hours away into the oak tree’s shadows, its vast, blue emptiness scraped vulnerable by             the various, inarticulable divinations heaven-wrought it is in my watching where I learn that all those long darknights oflonging are survivable, even the edifice’s steep climb embarrassed by the chaste stars, or faithless dreamers - I know because I, too, survived them: isolation’s weight, musky as those grief-lilies that wilted into rot, fragranting abandoned rooms with the raw crimson of russets reigned by the war that designed them desire is a name for it, yes? Hunger another. A small, half-held thought’s burden,           it takes too much bravery. All of this takes too much bravery. And I am not very brave. Each decision I make, each word I say, everything is an echo backwards into my own                     skull’s cavernous ruin, run over by ants and all their tip tip tapping.                 There is no world that I know where home is not heavier than itself, an absence.

I stood in a cornfield an hour after sunset thinking of recipes for cranberry muffins and how this really wasn’t about loneliness

Birds are plummeting the earth jerks back dodging their impact

milkweed, my hands sticky with sap, my moon-colored snout lit below the marshland’s pores I, devoid of revelation, do nothing but seep and occur, saturated in the distant dreams of human longing I wake like a beast snagged by murk, all of this I do, upset by  my own uselessness the faceless widow of a far-off world, hollow as winter I plant and sow nothing I stick and weep instead

birds, pale as the bones of sleep touch nothing, not earth or branch is weighed by song all is converted to weightlessness, all that was once heavy is no more; I have woken into a world I live but cannot remember, am I ash endowed with bitter star? I lack any shape, I hinge below memory’s depths and haunt with that impossible wanting - I no longer care what sound it makes, violence changed me, I will not be heard, regardless