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Poem


Why does the swirly train of dancing spirits speak to me, 
on nights when my voice grows weary?
Where does the pain of breathing lay?

I, the fever that holds strength and weakness in one bone,
shadow and light carving chaos onto hidden stones.
Tonight, I watch the swelling spirit speak,
in foreign neon lights possessing my need for sleep,
grasping onto this pair of lungs and rewriting heavenly dreams.

What does my blood know of the sky of fireflies,
glazed in colors of green,
when all the blues I’ve bled were left in a cerulean sea?
I’ve watched living pieces wilt on thriving trees,
yet the moon weeps for a thread of water
to fall on a silvery breeze.

Would you wonder where the earth would kiss me first,
soon after I rest six feet under its warm embrace?
When the limbs of the sun can no longer crawl
their way up my winding waist,
will your fire mutate through the silent soils?

Do the sins on your skin ache to speak of my heart,
while healing was never my piece of art?
So do as you must—if the clouds aren’t what the stars desire,
the waves will weave the clutter you conspire.

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