napowrimo7

all my bent offerings to you in the Spring moonlight must be eaten by the Dawn

 

all my thoughts
twisting limbs budding
ghost hymns
line the wind
wearing the continents
standing between us
it is not enough
to find myself only mad
with misunderstanding
for I seem only to feel alive
when I am dead
to those who might dare love me,
waiting to be the bloom
on the corpse blood as spiny
fingers might feed silver hair
digging through the air
where mud finds
how our roots might 
eventually come to die...