Poetry

Imprint

I stand now in a green field,

greener than any around it.

I stand now in a mass grave,

more drenched in blood than any quiet churchyard.

 

Touching the soil, my fingers catch

on the lip of a twisted belt buckle,

and the last moments of its owner illuminate my shadow,

their pain becoming my own,

as if centuries have not passed

and we are twins,

sharing the same blood, the same heart.

 

Flowers around me.

Cornflowers, daisies, Lady’s bedstraw.

Bones around me.

Long trampled and hidden, only ghosting up

to those who bother looking.

 

The long grass stains my hands as I pull at the blades,

thinking only of how other blades

drew out crimson:

a stain that would never wash out.

Poetry

A tale

With charcoal in one hand

and chalk in the other,

we mark out the fate of the world.

Dark melts into light

and light crashes into dark.

We trap it

with markings on great walls

of caves amidst the smoke

of carefully set bonfires.

Flames that can predict the future.

We see ourselves riding

on the backs of river dragons,

racing from the molten chase.