White veiled widow
drags to the beat of
the drum
trailing tears
behind her
that become frogs of
the forest
bouncing back to
their moss laced
logs.
And I used to be
better
at time travel,
but lost the talent
as the years passed
and the dreaming
became a chore,
and the mountains of
sorrow
closed in,
and the snowman
melted
outside my window in
the sun.
What did you say to
me?
All I heard was bent
echos,
wicked and bloody
twisted pulses,
screech sound and
metal,
deep pelvic
vibration
but no syllables,
just bones crunching
and
teeth clenching to
the nerves underneath.
What was I thinking?
Hush that mouth of yours,
Hush that mouth of yours,
muse and water,
writer and the
weather,
mad and talented,
novocaine and
answers,
boring voices and
closest space,
squint hard
and see the spectral
glory
in between this
nonsense
and fuck these words
home.
