12/27/18 9:13PM
if i could walk back every
crumbling path and dilapidated speech
i ever trod on
i would have never moved once
i smash my rock into pieces
and still grasp at gravel
porous, miserable slough
that i line filters with
and i can’t even write
like i used to, when it was all flowery
but still scented like shit
now this skin mottles into
jagged peaks, wilderness
expression in stone
they call it a thousand yard stare
but i usually see further
you can see the horizon
right out on the lake
i blamed lithe and dour serpents
for this original guilt
but i think it goes deeper
now that i’m on the emerald isle
every morning tastes like blood
and shredded feet