Wednesday, October 17, 2012

the sound of breath

a bellows
ignites the iron-flame
of yesterday
and bathes
the room in
pumpkin light

cinders fall like
gnats, who lost breath
and returned to the dirt

a wheel turns and needs to
stop, so eyes can travel
to dreamland

I travel through dark houses
sampling them like
a bite of various fruits

I crawl towards a wall
and feel my fingertips
losing feeling

when my snakeskin
peels off
I'll be a weathervane
pointed to the west