my inanimate sounds
from the turret of a spine.
castle green
white porceline of envy
on deaths deserted trail.
artic cold as talking clouds
shift and slither
more curious than blood,
what meaning this
where hides good-weather sparrows in a shawl?
here, no cactus lives
nor seasons flow, now one by one
comes and goes
one million epitaphs\'
of mice and men.
deep-rooted I,
in my mothers womb
thirsty as a snake
benign yet still
am curious of faith and all who kneel
inside the halls that bicker bark and sway.
there are a dozen more who squeal
each night as sleeps my semen on a towel
I have walls to build
to navigate me safely from this suicidle mind.
behind all things surreal
there is no honesty in truth.
let the rain dissolve this bloody-dye I breathe.
no celebration days\' shall seek reward
nor prepare us for our final meeting place;
face to face
with minerals and a mothers love,
it is us who brought us each untimely death;