floating and leaving no trace
it has been one hundred years
since i have seen a human face
and the memory of those features
dim with each new pale sunrise
now i have only my tears
as a mirror, too small to trace
the sharps and curves, cruelest teacher,
time, but there is no surprise
gristle and thistle and sharpened teeth
dwell under skin and hide beneath
the roiling swell of too-hot blood.
ashes to ashes, and dust to mud
we gather together to raise the dead
serve them cakes and moldy bread
return again to the silent tomb
just another word for womb
the bones hang slack
and the blood cools swift
we shamble forward
toward the rift
no light within
no light without
we trip and fall
swallowed up by doubt
our descent will take
a thousand years
our only company
will be our fears
Words and Feathers 