Wednesday, June 8, 2011

May words

A scorpion
in a glass jar
trying so hard to be
he must be free.

Under iron skies
we felt
the wind
ice daggers
as we walked from her fresh grave.

Pool of yellow light
through the forest ceiling breaks
violet butterfly.

I feel
on me
the weight
of the weight.

Lost in a grey crowd
his mask red, white, and blue
a clown holds back
from the void.

Swallowing fire
before the lights change to green
Soot boxes his world.