Your branch hands
held a sharp tweak
to my eyes,
so lovely–
you deface my grave.
Legions of moss and dust
gather,
starving–
because they pity me,
and need to eat–
mouthfuls of letters and stone.
Blood draperies,
once my youth
stream for
the fleshy torrent of younger days,
as fly brides
marry the idea of dying
and grooms wring their feet
of standing and commitment.
Hold my stygmataem to air’s reach,
leave the flakes to the owls
at night’s burst.
mmmmmm ^-^ i love it. i feel like it touches my soul ❤