Crypt
my skin has been empty
for years, mummified,
blood circles the wilderness
of my past, wandering
beneath the shade cast
by forests of fear.
it's autumn and the ground
is littered in memories
fluttered down to dirt.
I can not find the path
lying barren beneath the rubble.
but death never built
a compass so I could
find my way home,
so I stay warm by friction,
with a pulse powered
by attempts to escape,
I wonder if I can
worm my way past the sky
into place without
the shackles of gravity,
pulling me to the dust.
I can't shrink enough
to erase the handles,
or grow strong enough to resist.
this is why waiting
hides behind its name.
16
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