I know of a place,
where it only rains ash.
The sun doesn't shine,
it was swallowed en masse.
By an ominous void,
that's now stifled the grass.
I'm loathe to return,
but I'll lead you if asked.

We'll journey on over,
to death's little home.
Where graves fill the fields,
in neat little rows.
Not a songbird in sight,
just cackling crows.
Nor will flowers you see,
where the bone roses grow.

Fine no more laughing
It makes me choke
Fine no more singing
The line gets cut short anyway
Fine no more smelling the flowers
My nose is to clogged up
Fine no more breathing
My throat feels like its closing
Fine no more air
I can't breath anyway

we twist, moths, to the light
in one another's eyes. this slow
dance, through loneliness. nothing
looks like all verdant expanses- thickets
of wind, icesheets. spread heart to
fragments; points of light above
borealis, your spinning skirt. daybreak.

eight-eight hundred is a ****** of
a number, though. all volume does
dissect, though: given time, pace.
sheets smooth.
tunnels of sharp rock, most days.

and here we step, tiny specks,
blinks apart, in coat of grand
nameless machinery. words
leak, as the length of
mid-afternoon; i can
barely breathe, sometimes,
stuck in these swales of
blush& noise. it is
wonderful, sometimes,
this slow twist under
city lights.

we dance, moths, around
this sharp-tongued
flame of worldly woe,
of each other's lips.