that fang and broadness of chest
the swiftness of run in the blackness
there were births washed
in the grief of your death
just born searching through
lifetimes
we're all here now
there was some shit needed clearing
a plantation, an ill minded guardian of the watch
the fucking priests
the demented lord
the wastrel and those hordes of
demons imbibed
tobacco given as ransom
one time my lungs
burned sacrifice into stone runneling charms
now is probably really good
the night is restless
take all the time you want
what's free can't be stolen anyway
man being in the image of
and myself the beloved oneness
putting on lipstick
and kissing paper with a smile
whistle past the deathyard ghosts with me
About the Creator
susan marie loehe
everything is Art, Art is Everything.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson2 days ago in Fiction
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