“I’ll ask you this my boy, Do you ever wonder about love? Is this life what you thought it was?”
Dust transferred into a breath, Before a thought came to rest.
I smell it, That acrid smoke.
Bring to me December,Bring to me the cold,I will be the ember,Bite it back with teeth of gold.An orange and rusty glow,I will burn the snow,Let the waters flow,Down unto the plateau.Then come September,When the wind whispers relief,When the ground bursts forth its wheat,What is lost I will remember,Hidden among the bundles reaped,Silent, not yet …
The sky is beautiful until you must lift it,
The fruits are sour until you’re forbidden.
On a rock,
Burns red the day.