The weight of these ashes

Death can be heavy... no other way to say it.

the moon
thin and arched
rises like a broken rib
and floats in the ocean
of blistered ink,

in Mother’s tomb
I sleep, trampled by fear
for I have not visited Father’s since
I lit that sun burnt candle with his voice-
the dust sizzled,
groveling in murky breaths of parched regret

forgetful Gods
neglected to clarify
motive for painting over
such perfection,
leaving only empty hands reaching
for a holy neck
to where they can latch

I found the bitterness
wounded and sulking
on the side of the road,
the stare of a child
and hooves of a graded and tangible nostalgia

the snap of its neck
avalanched through my trembling hands,
then embedding its pelt
into the youth of my skin
I craved bone deep pockets for the weight of those ashes

Reviews

[JimmyFlux]

Speaks volumes of the passion of your craft. Truly well-penned.

[Chris]

This one I need to mull over and find a commonality of reference...