When the first set of hands left the carriage the impregnation of solace crept in. Its like hearing your own voice thru a small staircase.
“live in it as if you couldn’t breathe.”
But those eyes have my attention, and that blood is wet.
Dirty fingers paint a whimper on the budding grass.
Its much akin to the death of body. Once the soul does its chime through the saw dust, the reappearance of body embraces the confounded reality that soul and body constitute annexations through self.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s