midnight, the hunted hexagonal white velvet stag and the power of old trees...

the trembled Winter melody of a silent dictionary

our splintered limbic system 

our reclamation memory

our humanity

our emotional portent

our mystic needs

our bled bodied parts

our kept wax sealed jars

our inhales to get high

our lying back

our taking our time

our splatter joys

our dirty cleans

our sheets of rain

our not minding being

left a note written

in a wet spot calligraphy

a scented map

back to places on a you

that kept on birthing

note after note

of chordal hums

strummed, strung

past expression

sold to the weather

outside the window

calling open

our howls

we start to crawl and

writhe when at first, all

the loss of words does

is start hearing

tombstones thirst

bunting quilts

under cover 

day blind trickled

waded into night

the snow's quiet

is stretched thin

stitched inside 

the seams look

its masking 

is a bare boned 

architecture of murder

embedded inside all

of humanity’s DNA

arms and legs 

unnecessary 

appendaged 

rivers leaned

shadow clocks 

dying an industrial 

revolution’s, slow-tiny 

crept bloom of itself

we are inside 

iron cousins leaving 

little dreamed deaths

of their father Sun 

Antigone sometime

in each version 

of every future's vision

unfurls, a story told

in her eyes and lies 

that held the sharp spear 

of destiny gathered without mercy

of every desire to be fed a more

when we get there

we will more than surely

have already left this place

still listening at the places

where nature had stopped 

loving us and we began 

to call it divine

a probability and 

progress to the holy 

resting laces covering

what we used to be

those spaceships caught

with video, on late night

documentary television shows

are the Paparrazi in lifeboats

and they all know

why, we are leaving and they sell 

the story and everything else

all that we have ever believed

at once and instantaneously

becomes what deceives, completely

a song, an echo siren left 

in the remains 

of written perspective

will say we are all ghosts

we are in the rocks and

that after the last loss of words

a quiet will start to linger

long enough to catch us

we will become a snug calculus

waving surrender’s flag

setting ourselves to the tides

as another basket needing to find

luck in the reeds

EJR ©