She fell of the side of a mountain
the scream was so bright
the birds shied away
and hearts fluttered like
pretty wings.
Eyes and ears were on it
like raw unseasoned steak
for the masses.
Goldenseal for your blood.
The powders of geniuses
sprinkled over your sheets.
It’s a long night when
the moisture in the air
adjusts you and you,
you smell the air.
Inhale its thousand
phantom potions
and wonder what you missed.
Poetry, it was always this vague.
I reach out for my tiny character
and I want to make her big.
She shrinks under the light
of counsel and requests her
phone call.
When the dead answers,
she’s done with the pages
she’s been in,
requests a total rewrite.
“Make it easier for me.
I am tired of crawling skin and crying.
Make it easier for me.
I am tired of people dying.”
I scribble her in the margins.
Luck could run out at anytime,
leave a snake in the corners
of old haunts and convince
her that the new haunts are
snake and worry free.
At least, until chapter three.
She fell of the side of a mountain
the scream was so dark
the bats shied away
and hearts fluttered like
sonic waves and memory.
“Make it easier for me.
I am tired of lost love and feelings.
Make it easier for me.
I am tired of just dealing.”
I flipped to another chapter edited till my fingers bled
and knew that nobody
would ever read it.