©2023 michael raven

slipping from shadows' grip
to fall and trip into another
place of being, dissolving
beyond borders and boxes
kept dusty on shelves
done gone past, asking
what does it matter anyway?

running with wolves, howling
at the moon, ebon feathers
fallen in my wake, that place
when my breath becomes
wind, the wind becomes
rain, the rain dances on stone
and stone... and as we know,
our home is stone

wrist scarlet ribbons as
i bleed into the earth and
dream the dream, that 
sacred dream, of what we
fell from the stars aeons ago --
into the lake, that ancient lake
deep into the grip of shadow

...of where we, once again, sleep