Parchment on the stone,
his breathing is
but burnt sails, thrown
out like gum-stained pennies.

Barely uttered, they burst
into flame at air’s abrade.

Man on the stone.

A stare
or two rot on his skin
as they are dropped…
… Bombs, they tear
the pages off his body.

He is a man
on the stone.

Your fangs sunk
in his crackled neck
have grown flowers now
and they dance, dance

their roots down into

the shell,
to the soul-splattered
inside…

… And they drink,
drink,

drink
him away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Photo: Kat NORTHERN LIGHT MAN / FLICKR