when pale skies are too wide and low and i feel less covered than a stone when there seems
nowhere to mend and there is nowhere else to breathe when no roof rests up overhead
and my steel is unsheathed like the open road when my neck lies in wait for a salty sun and
my blink is too slow to avoid the jab when i smash my toe until my blood runs dry and
slipping makes my ankle crack when my fingertips are scraped to pulp and my nails are torn
from shards of rock and my lips are slit by the blade of a scythe when my throat is raw from
sucking thorns then you resurface painstakingly - hold out your honeyed hand and
the dolor i freight
becomes a
sheer
dry
shroud
seasofme130313moot
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there is always someone at the end of the tunnel. waiting. or is there?
YOU ARE READING
body
Poetrymy personal favourites in one book. these all come from older collections. hardly any of the media belong to me
