Midnight

Mara and I cradled each other,

both intertwined

in the brush and debris.

I could feel the moon,

.

her starry children,

gaze longingly

at the deciduous earthiness,

chaining us to the grounded

.

rhythms of a world

at the edge.

.

The scene, spirit, scent

and the silent spaces

were all we had to keep

breathing.

.

This is surrender,

a giving and a parting,

a letting go.

.

Just, keep breathing.

.

Sacrificing sacred baubles

of an increasingly foreign shore

to an old god,

.

breathe.

.

The scar tissues of dead battles

of night terrors,

paths lit with pyres

fueled by the tears

of the lost self

.

where I sat trembling,

.

I see the physics of worlds crack

at the weight of the delusion.

.

Desperately holding gently

to thin untangling threads

frayed with the surrealism

of the innermost false self.

.

The rituals feel foreign

to what is left of who I was.

.

Sometimes, surrender is emancipation,

while victory feels dormant.

This weighty frontier recycles

such remnants, and discards.

.

Who I was,

is not close to

who I am,

.

lying prone on a darkened street,

gravel roads,

cracked blacktop

framed by trees bleeding hues

.

of sienna, of amber.

.

I lay transfixed, staring at crows

dancing around my shadows,

through needles and forests

purified by charred undergrowth.

.

Kissed by the soft hand of death

grounding me on firm soil.

.

Reclaiming the dying person,

who never lived.

.

Tomorrow, moments away.