lost bells.

maybe this time around
i’ll sing for my
supper. try for aesthetic
darwinism.
starve when I have no beauty
to scrape up. and
crumble
under those clouds.

their turn now

I am only tired of the sinking
the subtle decline
the slow rot

flesh can only hold so tight
and bones never ask.

whats been taken

they beat at
dead bloody horses
stolen even skies
and buried them
like our dead.

it never was enough,
mining out the souls
with the stones.
no one spoke to
the shovels we took up
at our shoulders
where the cold collected.

perhaps the rivers would open
or the wounds would never
transfer into speech.

or maybe

it's just the weather.
the time of year
where everyone
keeps the memory
like salt next to pepper
so ready to forget.