it is said
death has no brothers
and we do not keep anything
from here
our memory takes to the dark like
our hands to a prayer
to the fields freshly razed
how we inherit the sky
as it is as it was
all rusted black with the seasons
of distance empty-handed
the sungod's song
ashed into the sharp air like
a mouthful of cicadas
a belly full of rusty blades
sharpened through wet leaves
autumn's misfired words
& the cadence of quiet victory
all sand and small bones
and what have I known
of the beast struggling to be free
the impulse of its wilderness
antlered across
the surface of its frantic heart
a speed beyond the thoughts of birds
a world left behind
that does not know
it's only beginning
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About the Creator
Timothy James Lane
Sea Ghost
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