Falling, like autumn leaves,
Drifting through the air,
Guided by the wind,
In shades of red and yellow fair.
But as they touch the ground,
Their colors start to fade,
Turning brown and battered,
Before they pass away.
Beaten, tattered, and torn,
All hopes of happiness forlorn.

Fission, fusion.
Derision after derision.
Creation, destruction.
Degredation after degredation.
Combination, seperation.
Decay after decay.

Fusion, fission.
Praise after praise.
Destruction, creation.
Amelioration after amelioration.
Splitting, collaboration.
Growth after growth.

I know only
That I know nothing!

so i’m talking to this guy,  
nice suit, clip-on tie,  
got the voice of a used car commercial  
like the voice of a clearance sale
held during a funeral

he tells me,  
“you like power?  
you like legacy?  
how ‘bout immortality at half the cost?”

and i say  
i don’t carry cash anymore  

he leans in, smiles like a bad poker hand,  
“no problem,”  
he says,  
“we accept loyalty oaths
to misplaced gods,
and whatever you named your shame.”

next thing i know  
i’m walking through  
a ruin with central heating

they got velvet ropes around the lies,  
audio guides whispering:  
“this is where he convinced them  
he was permanent.”

and tourists nod,  
because that’s what we do  
when we don’t understand something  
but it’s expensive.

a billboard in the rubble says:  
“AS SEEN IN PROPHECY!”
another one:  
“PRE-OWNED KINGDOM, LOW MILEAGE!”

and i ask the guy,  
“what happened to the big shot?”  
he hands me a coupon for salvation  
and says:

“he choked on a crown,  
tried to chew  
what he couldn’t command.”

the rest of the tour  
was ashes & echoes.  
a room where everyone  
once agreed to forget.  
a throne room  
turned timeshare.  
a voice on loop  
saying:  
“look upon, look upon, look upon…”
but never finishing the sentence.

before i leave,  
he gives me his card  
(it’s blank)  
and winks:  
“remember,  
we don’t sell eternity—  
we lease it.”

when all the birds have broken their wings
i will cradle your blood in my palms like holy water.
it’s warm,
warmer than god’s voice ever was.

time does not speak to me.
it only gnaws.
i lie beneath the floorboards, fingernails black with rot,
scraping remnants of lace and dried sweetness
from the soft decay of forgotten girlhood.
those torn seams, those salt-laced dreams—
what is purity but a ghost in the mildew?

O hearken!
the lilies are shrieking again.
their tongues curl like burnt scripture.
and i—
forever entranced by the acacia with the broken branches—
watch it weep sap like blood from an open wound,
as if to mourn something
only the trees remember.

i have swallowed the nightingales,
pressed their hollowed bodies
to the roof of my mouth
and vowed to keep them safe.
put your hands within me
and you will know the breaking of their wings—
each bone snapping in rhythm
with the pulse beneath my skin.

Our God sees everything
but he blinks often.
how could anyone have a mother?

your ribcage—once cathedral, now ruin—
shatters under the thousand-eyed weight
of dead saviors.
their halos clang as they fall.
your conscience flickers like static,
blotted out by the black geometry
of the insatiable void.

cassiopeia screams into her chains
but the stars do not loosen.
the universe unfurls
like a paper body
set alight.

O hearken!
kneel for the Great Reprieve!
when all the birds have broken their wings—
may we bleed beautifully.
oh mercy you, oh mercy me.

fingers
                (they grow—damp
but not ripe)
  
         (damp)
the world leans into—flesh sways
           like chimes inside rotten skin

–hisscrack—snap!  
                        one
finger,      *******
falling           silent
beneath

                        murmur
            of the trench (deep    and wet
     in its hunger)                                                          ­              
            (flesh like flaking bread)
the fingers think about the soft ground
and wish they were    as light
                                as they
were not

if only it were not so
            slow

            left with—
                                the ache—   the hollow
where fingers once
     felt
        the grip of a rifle
                           (now forgotten)
       as they slowly,
    listlessly drop        
    towards the hungry earth

i
                am
      still here
    if only i can touch
                           the dirt  
            with    nubs that will never
            rise  
            up against
                   the gray

—drip
                           drip
        of life from
         where my
                (left) hand
should
                 hold a fist

but it is just
                       bone  
                             and bone
growing brittle
until the
                          whisper  
                         reaches to  
                           speak louder than silence
     and

                                       then

there is nothing
     but the hole inside
me left
              to remember me.