the breaks

                      &
as simple as that
i cut crimson cords
composing guard rails
reach out into the
air and
      tumble ass
           over teakettle
      with
 nothing left to prove
runes strewn to four
corners & blackthorn
       septic underskin
underhill where
spectres roam still
       aghast at my
audacity, howling,

                    becoming
nothing special again
we gather around
        peat bonefires &
chit-chatter under a
pale winter moon
humming songs
rediscovered in back
               pockets all
until the sun rises
tall in the sky anew

2 thoughts on “the breaks”

There is a fine line between feeling that we are unique and feeling, at the same time, that we are nothing special. You have captured this most effectively here, Michael.

LikeLiked by 1 person