Poems ✍️

Mother woke me this morning,
her voice, a rattle of earth and worms-
it may not concern you, she is dead.

and maybe you do not care to know
her grave is a bed I sleep on-
and her moon and stars are sheets
I slip between-
and her science and her faith
do not live on in death.

but you know, she comes to me
eyes half shut,
feet worn to bone. she walks streets
like dreams I struggle through-
blood of my blood,
I drank from her vision
and was borne
-
of the splinters from her cross
to the fiery embers of her pyre-
I’ve collected the ashes
the same as twilight would the stars-
Heaven is nothing
more than infinite wasteland
for ghosts and stellar gas-
and this hell on earth, memory and wind
is the night’s lament