The sky is bone-white
and guilty-faced,
and some horrible cry is preparing itself
between my two lips–
I have become lamb from sheep,
regressed again;
I cannot stop screaming,
I cannot graze the land
without knowing that I am becoming
someone I have already been.
The things that make me happy,
that used to,
all exist in some other place:
where I came from,
where I’ll never be again,
where the creek water is always warm
and the lamb-scream
is so deep inside of me
I cannot reach it with my fist.
- Ellery Rose
Jan 20, 2025
Jan 20, 2025 at 12:21 PM UTC
The sky is bone-white
and guilty-faced,
and some horrible cry is preparing itself
between my two lips–
I have become lamb from sheep,
regressed again;
I cannot stop screaming,
I cannot graze the land
without knowing that I am becoming
someone I have already been.
The things that make me happy,
that used to,
all exist in some other place:
where I came from,
where I’ll never be again,
where the creek water is always warm
and the lamb-scream
is so deep inside of me
I cannot reach it with my fist.
- Ellery Rose
Request permission to use this poem