I wrote you a letter I could never mean. Trial and error - the survivalist mantra: blessed are the meek. In another era, closed captioning open for grief. Down hung heavier - cycles more vicious than obscene. My rock-tied tantra sunken beneath a murky green.
Twisted and devouring itself, this soul, like Midguard’s serpent, into Deadalus’ shop of horrors - trapped. Fading faster with each death.
Listen to the elders. Their beseeching spilt over dry leather cracks and smoked spices. Painful cinnamon with a hint. Piscine odored mist upon the bridge connecting feelings to one so bereft, so clouded...
A reworking of the original turtle dove.
Do that thing again. You cry while I hold you, like the little baby I am. Don’t look now, but wow, I’ve never fucked up so completely. Oh wait, yes I have.
Awakening on its journey, a smell of slight decay. Leaves sloughing from the canopy. A zombie losing the safe promise of summer fruits. Scurry and hurry to the beat of a sacred, albeit fatalistic, yearly routine. Close to where we started, but no less sweet to see, the two by two's; the families; their long sleeves