She will,
only become,
aware of,
the severity,
in the things,
that she,
has insistently,
gone and done,
when she admits,
to the obvious shifts,
in the gazes of,
the Almighty Ones;
she will,
finally be outdone,
deep inside of,
the smoking barrel,
of a black market gun,
will she submit,
to the things,
that she’s let,
grow into beasts?
Or will,
the darkness,
swallow her,
in totality,
just to make,
itself regurgitate,
her existence,
the day will come,
a day that makes,
today seem sweet,
like times of joy,
full of ease,
gobble them,
swallow them,
get down,
on your knees,
a day will come,
that defines suffering.


Resting Place.

We slept without breaths –

underneath six feet of topsoil,

bathed in the heavy suffocation,

of loosely strung illumination –

another silent burial site’s

flimsy paper lantern lights,

among the beloved already beneath,

primordial soup of bones and teeth –

a headstone: too heavy,

a secret: too kept too steadily,

a lifetimes of anchors: dropped deep –

chained to my chains for all eternity,

a fate bound to a rabid Mammoth,

chained to both well-traveled,

and yellow, daisy-kicking feet,

we dreamt without darkness –

under the same stars,

that together, we once betrayed,

in a match’s quickly stricken,

enticing phosphoric display,

we struck fire to the paths –

from which we just had strayed,

never looked back, admittedly,

we ran until it all faded away,

into one, never-ending and exhausting –

ill-fated, suffocated final resting place.