Sometimes the sweet dreams fall in with the dead and bloom to wild and bitter memories.
From rain to muddy wisdoms about God wiping His feet with church. Murky speaks in Holy water turning His hands to dirt between human and Heaven.
I kept the stained church, and left my faith in her flowers with feelings like roots asking for the rain to grow them up from being buried closer to my soul weighed down with thinking and bad habits.
Ruining words and spilling holes to religion. There isn't peace in the body touching the ground for Heaven. A pulse in my bones under the skin holding the Bible with the same strength I held her until the
last sweet dream fell in with the dead
and bloomed to wild and bitter memories.
YOU ARE READING
dirt & human
PoetryThis collection has the dirt for my grave and my soul for God but when it rains there's meaning for my muddy heart. (Some of the poems are older and published already, I moved them to this collection, so if you recognize a poem that's why.)
