Thunder grumbles in my stomach
almost louder, certainly
more insistent
than clouds gathering
across the yielding sky.

I pretend God hung them there with clothespins.

Kneading ashes into the days dough
I treat it as a tithe
though I've not pinched any off.

The pennies in a jar by the door
catch my eye.

So many little disks.

So many little lies that we become
and twist about to believe because the believing
is easier that way. We are not dying.

Or so I whisper to the ash
as it succumbs to my hands
and forgets the oven.

© Amber Dawn

Language
has come & gone
without
sophic discernment
for the fluidity
of her archetype
or
the stain of her touch
she-wolf in pain
but in love
in wine
or poetry
she becomes
a hundred thunder blessed
tongues
smoothing stones
in river beds
yet to be ******
newly hatched moments
in time
have missed the salvo
of rain
turned instead
pixels to temples
hypnagogia learned
a new dialect
oh yes
language has come
and is gone...
she slit our throats
whilst we dreamt
in the bliss
of ignorance

© Amber Dawn