The sound of the wind rustling the crusty leaves that bury me.
They smell so sweet, decomposing in the spring;
Like memories wafted to my brain and its stem.
Plant this seed in deep, between the vertebrae of my spine
And I’ll curl like a fetus, trying to find a heart to listen (to.)
The months pass in nines. I’m still trying to find a way out this womb.
Drying veins align, a path for these rivers to follow you.
I decay before I bloom, trace my pain through my roots.

-SLuR

There are no right answers.
The sky rejects the birds, turns them
over to gravity,
embedding them in the concrete and dirt.
The grit refuses to become a pearl,
just as the wound refuses to heal
and the flesh eats itself.
The market sees a sudden spike in
sales of Champagne and cyanide.
Coordinated efforts seek and fail
to curtail the rising tide of violence
in the nation's dreaming.
You realise that this crude, barbaric language
that you can't understand
is your own.
Beauty glitches and pixelates.
Frightened, furtive confessions of love
are unheard over proud, visceral
proclamations of hate.
Tongues divorce mouths.
Every now and then, a voice
inside your head says,
'Thud.'
The measures of sanity become
more quantifiable and
totally arbitrary.
The horizon
tightens
like
a noose.

It doesn't matter if this is wrong.
There are no right answers.