The stories melt like ash on our tongue
We are parched
Lying on the floor
Thinking of endings
Milkweed afternoons perish like spirits
Snapped in two
Tiny limbs dangling from the edge of our cave
Waiting in this space of being
Drifting in and out of consciousness
Days months years
We can only imagine the rings in the tree
Felled
Broken
Sore
Too tired to cry or crawl any more
There is a small light
A radiance
Time burning like a flare
In the background of our mind
Old dreams failing and falling
A thin rope and sad disguise
The rain comes
Washes away the clover
Painted carefully on our hand
We are born in words
Not being
The stories melt like ash on our tongue
We are parched
Lying on the floor
Thinking of endings
That never come.
