The waves he broke

I regress
that child long since passed
coming of age the bark was etched and sketched
autumns blush hushed into the movement
falling gracefully as if all was as it was meant to be
a trail of desire he’d written into the landscape
he was wild as a deer
weedy and nervous
easily flushed
trailing away from man
he ran like the river below
bubbling and frothing with too much flow
branches snapping under the waves he broke

The mighty Oak

I crawled into the pocket of a caterpillars universe
I saw the mighty snakes
hanging from beastly boots
the beaks of blue tits pecking away
to which they were my T-rex
and I saw time slowed
to one long blink of an eye
at night I prayed
Garrulus glandarius
Glorious Glandarius
Garrulus glandarius
Glorious Glandarius
Screeching your way through the sky
thank you for my home
the mighty oak!

Not my home

The needles write love on my knuckles
while the blades write hate
I will not be stilled
till earth and water whittle me down
I could only wish
it would be quicker somehow
these waters are troubled
I’m crumbling as rubble
becoming the froth on the water’s edge
a slow release and decay
I wish to be dust not tomorrow but today
I am not a sabal palm
or anything other rugged
I cannot withstand eras
this earth is not my home but a cage

Sunday wordle: Something different to what I usually do.

Attempted to do a mini poem for every word for the Sunday wordle but my inspiration ran dry

Admit – A word that permits confession
               as if words are solid
               with mere flicks of the tongue
               that could cleanse our dirty ought not to do’s
               and what for but for redemption?

Flicks –   A scar picked with the bend of words cursed
              felt as if no other world exists
              outside of their narrative

Scar – The stream that flows through
             a rugged landscape
             with all its liquid cruelty chiselling
             us into formation
             sharp as an axe after transformation

Remember – Scars leave traceable tracks
                        of remembrance
                        faces fade but what was felt remains

Dirty – Earthing oneself as if we became some other
             cleansing in the soil to remember
             the dust that made us 

Hear – This pseudoforest sings your rite of passage
             crows scalding you, your disturbance
             of the rains tumult percussion.

There is always something that can live in the crevices of death

My words are cheap
and empty
just like me.

I say what comes
to the tip of the tongue
but underneath the letters
is a skeleton waiting
to discard this flesh.

I keep trying to commit to life, living
but I think I prefer death
without the dying
maybe I’m just afraid
of continuance

Like how the world turns no matter
the begging for it to stop
or how there is always something
that can live in the crevices of death

Because what the fuck does that mean to me?
It’s no comfort to me
that our energy continues to feed
the continuance of this monstrous world’s greed


Alternative ending

Because what the fuck does that mean to me
when the earth consumes you
while I’m still above the soil
shedding skin, dying and therefore still living?