Violent thoughts
circle the carcass,
like the vultures
in my dreams,
dancing on the
naked grass,
feasting on the
spoils of sorrow,
ever hungry for the
fading conscience,
uncovering rules
of my addiction.
I have lost the will
to wake up and be
conscious.
Snow-clad isms
are melting,
preying on the
headless corpses.
Fractured flesh
infects the grieving
scriptures.
At last, the storms
have come to collect
the forest,
but they won’t
come and listen.
Potent remedies
bury the silences,
sowed in bones—
lessons of religion
of the man
burning in the
distance.
He’s been cut
with precision,
his toothless grin
battling sciences.
I can see the sun
set in his eyes;
he’d rather sleep
until the end of the
world.
