Brother,
you ever wash ashore the river of Styx,
a pale white ember of your memories asunder?
The rhythm of tripping on half shelled rocks, clamoring abound and a pit fire,
His house is of wood and vertical just right,
The fire erupts and it was the night of our summer.
Again, click, hiss, tall peaks and thin blue crisps,
What is the opposite of hiss, and fill, and puff
Under the autumn sky we are all children hurt little by our torn stilettos
Trudging traipsing dancing till the night sky breathes whimsy and fearful circuitous pathways forever to be trespassed in the recesses of our mind were it not for the lavish affordances of the very fruits we bore
Waking up in the fitful afternoon always felt like a grasp at life, a forceful breath
Relinquish this life back to me, the one I whispered into the night
And gasps, sultry enticement between my very lips and the air’s gas and moisture
Bring me again, to the world of the fireflies and music, the tunes we all sing and cried to
But asleep I am now, bereft in the auburn hues of molten ash and jelly no more.
Unearthing Treasures 