the aftermath is a song
breathed through broken lips

hallelujah, hallelujah
let my lifesong sing to you...

a hoarse voice lifted
in defiance

she listens to his voice
finds humor in this resistance

she twines his hair around her finger
smiling like war

he is crumpled, broken
supported by a wall of rubble

and her arms are around him
possessive, waiting

his lungs rattle
willpower is all that sustains him

her fingers linger at the corner of his mouth
tracing the words on his lips

i want to sign your name
to the end of this day

Lord led my heart was true
let my lifesong sing to you

hallelujah, hallelujah
let my lifesong sing to you...

his voice trails off
his eyes drift closed

she lifts his frail form
victorious

the ground where he had lain
is stained crimson

her hands are dark
with his blood

his spirit, though
is finally at peace

h.f.m.

i.
i wonder why i write anymore
why i agonize over a few lines of ink
on a piece of paper
what am i even trying to say?
i keep contradicting myself:
in one poem i decry my pain,
and plead for anyone to
heed what i hide
in the next

ii.
these words have no rhythm
no measure no
plan
they are
as senseless and chaotic
as
my desire for
rest and my
aversion
from sleep

iii.
do these thoughts even
mean anything?
are these thoughts
even real?
am i
real?

iv.
time is running
but i'm not going to chase it
there's no reason to
when it ends, it ends
and i don't particularly want to extend it

v.
i don't know what i want anymore

vi.
i don't know what i am

vii.
why am i here?

h.f.m.

there are three things you know

i.
you reach into your incorporeal chest
and cradle the bird behind your ribs.
forming a gentle cage of your hands.

you bring the red-chested red-breast to your lips
and tuck the fearful creature under your tongue.

ii.
blood-crimson feathers are spilling
from between your teeth like
cherry blossoms that carpet the corridors
of your weary mind and
scar-crossed thoughts.

iii.
your fingers are wine-dark with wanting
and an unnamed, silent thing
akin to fear tears tightening paths
through your skin,
hidden by the cold
and half-formed excuses.



the official story is that you
fell.

you didn't, not in the way they thought you meant.



you'll spit out the truth one day,
choking on summer-scented feathers
and small, pink flowers that you'll
crush between thumb and forefinger
in denial of this fear.

h.f.m.

I.
White flakes touch the street—
Their millions melt, dying
The way they were born.

II.
She blinked, shaking the
Snowflakes from her eyelashes,
And blushed like summer.

III.
A two-step blizzard
Waltzes in the windy air—
Winter masquerades.

IV.
In the darkness, steps
Crunch and echo in the snow,
Miles away from me.

V.
The buildings weather
The snow, but everything else
Crumbles under white.

VI.
After the snow, trees
Like middle-aged heads of hair
Became old and grey.

VII.
The hot chocolate
Stains my teeth, which once were
White like today’s snow.