Going down,
my knees hit first,
splitting old scars,
and spilling more blood....

Every side touched by slow quicksand on cold toes.
The virus rages on.
Being scared to write means something,
damming up words that are my body
denies sweet breath
to parts that need the most to breathe.

My fetus universe
flashes red and gold
on the walls
inside the cave...

Bust out that cage!
Shut off the light!
Wander through the street!

Back from the dead
again
I have a bone to pick...

Once wandering alone in darkness,
I was guided by my Jesus from some slinky, slimy nothing
to a tangible, ****** dream.
My Jesus and my Virgil
--eaten up too soon.

I had to walk through Hell alone
Now poised at my striking hour...

I have no more words.