There is something to be made
from this all
something to be torn from serrated
edges of dreams
Skin folded in so tight it locks in spirit
and conviction

Losing itself in the rising of saline tides
it reaches for sharpened scraps
of metal anything to
puncture and drain the captive
to let flow what once lived
freely from each vesture

Cry
Cry and someone will hear
Rip Clothes off skin
beg strange hands to grip
you firmly glide fingers
where they don't belong
bat tongues against wet skin
anything it whispers
just capture me again
hold me so i cant slip
Like old tattered fishing nets
like run in stocking

Burnt skin shrivels up like candy wrap
The sun keeping its gaze
until he's turned in for the night
Though body feels red hot
curry spice on cinnamon brown
Now turned coffee bean
it sits basted in aloe for reprieve
A pain premeditated to be received
but anything it whispers
Just capture me
hold me so I don't slip
Like old tattered fish nets
Like run in mamas stocking

The sound of leather boots
grind in ear root that will listen
he pears out of window
sees it coming
like ghost in trance
to dance like fire fly beams
in midnight Georgia sky

Door swings open
blazed eyes peer out
it drops grabbing ashy ankles
a riffled head of locks spring
it sporadic swirls
smell of sleep sits between them

inquisitions burst form mouth
a battle cry to the heavens
tell me little one
he says
cackling spit in throat
breath held in momentary suspension
and life exits room
he chants to bring it back
she slips fingers through labyrinth
she is as bewildered as he
he cannot save them both