in the bathroom, a bored metal clanging

2015-07-31 17:37:50

the living are the flesh and blood
ghosts of the dead
shouting nervously and
scaring the silent buried.

we'll talk about it when there's time
and gray enough to cover
years of skin
stretched too thin
over the unspoken.

dead moss remembers the sun that caressed
and the piss of baby deer,
and layers of dead butterflies,
and the tall trees turned to soot
as it passes back
into soil.

tags: poem, draft, original

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