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.

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