Rooted in spirit

Morning raises purple
bruises from the night
where the stars burst in my veins
you mutter your way through
my sleep, like an echo.

Clouds brood under a
rain soaked sky, heaven
can’t talk through crossed
lines, one to one doesn’t
seem to be available.

Time marches into serendipity
clicking its heels, salutes the
fly past, raising ribbons on
old defeats, forever running.

I meet myself at the corner
of the street, flee smooth faced
oestrogen babes white skin,
clutching at my one last egg:
flicker of recognition passes for love.

Spirits rise with the wind,
riding mythical beasts, course
through red blood keep light flowing.
It’s the light that’s noticeable,
rising around me like a ballgown.

Old women haunt me
their faces gnarled with
use, I teeter on the limit
diving from my spider’s
threads, trying not to dislocate.

Betrayals cut too deep
only clouds to talk to
birdsong in my hair
throwing runes for breakfast.

Rooted in Spirit

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