A language for what we speak

They set dynamite and explosives , a fine copper, a chiseled lead and the trigger at my finger said; dead, the bullet shrapnel dread of thought. Where I was fullness of earth and sun burning red, I became that other thing instead. White, Black, dissipating into pure, crystalline, granular dust. This karmic rust, this mind shed. Now I am no thought. I am no heart. No body. Your hand as it reaches for me becomes open cut, becomes decomposed mass, of unrecognizable. I am dancing with your skeleton out here in the dark before I’ve learned how to see. I am blind and hungry. I am empty. I am empty before the rise of day, the soft petal of your last word now blows off the tongues of green. This cool morning mist, the singing crickets, the shuffle as we make our way towards the end of what we are. Each dying star reminds me of the day I buried my entire life as a seed, it didn’t matter how it grew, what mattered was the thought which kept it hydrated.

Look she said and I agreed;
“they don’t have a language for what we speak.”

The small child smiled. The sun rose. She pointed to something indiscernable, a flower, is what they told her it was, but that was only the word they used to describe their understanding of it. It was a word that carried across the earth in a thousand unbreakable dialects. She pulled it from the soil, another voice said “it cannot be reversed now.”

We cannot dance clockwise or tie up our binds before the fire in the hopes of clarity. This sprig of coniferous wonder will soon perish with the bitter season, leaving in its wake a painful pining, pins and needles under this white reckoning of a frozen soul.

Out here your howl is my music, it is the wet of your palm in mine, granular, warm. It is sand into fire. Bone into flesh again.

It is bird now. They call it migrant. It rises beyond and lands here.

The girl holds flower over grave.

Over the land we inherit. Ash.
Ash palace,
Volcanic temple on pulse, aligning spine. Stem. Brain stem. Thorn.

Home in which we’re born. Cave into grave…

where the smile fades.