Poetry

A chat with the ground

I was with the skull all evening,

smirking at its cold jokes.

Our breath came out in backwards hymns

as it spoke of what death is really like.

I said to it that I wanted to shake its hand

for giving me such relief.

It replied that

one day, when it worked up the energy,

it would reach its arms out of the earth

in daisies and let me pick them.

Poetry

Last glance

She leads him

To the mirror pool

Where she tells him to dip his hands and drink.

She doesn’t say when to stop,

And so he continues, draining the pool.

In his belly, the shards of the mirror form, and

He sees not the blood from the wound in his middle,

But the faces of his children as they play,

Oblivious, in the fields below.

Uncategorized

The River Guards

A gathering of columns,

decorated with bright, orange blooms

that cascade their scent

on the decayed air,

stand bold against the grey river.

To them,

Satan is just a song

that drifts down on the wind,

but for those who sail,

unwillingly,

beyond the columns’ reach,

the song is more

a delighted warning of what awaits,

hellishly reminiscent

of the jaw-jarring scraping

of human fingernails on a blackboard,

drawn so fiercely across

that the nails are ripped away

from the cuticles.

The song instills anxiety into every

body.

What kind of creature

could possibly make such

a sound?