The whole of the world is a swelling daydream,
a gradual infection festering in
self-sought hypocrisy. Bleeding shadows
from behind your eyes, tasting rain-like teardrop
stones caught in your throat. Your voice a silent
cascade of sunset colors, dreaming of the wild
afternoon where trees shimmer in the heat,
a purple sweating craze wiped from your brow.

Do you hear the fox’s gagged voice,
choking ancient words amid the tall grass?
Shades striping, umber eyelids drawn,
whispering in a demonic tongue
a savage song just beneath the canopy.

Can you feel the hungry insects? Chiming in eternal
patience, abundance triumphing over minuscule lifespans,
giving purpose to all that is discarded, hordes chanting,
heralding the incoming dark, giving voice to the trees,
crying with the worms to taste the wasteless.

A seething undertow is coiling
through branching veins, ascending inside
climbing trees, and spilling over objecting
stones of forking tributaries.

Shrinking dusk, crawling beneath growing shadows,
a fading wound in the skin of night, a watching moon,
pale enchanted majesty, swooning divine reverie
in the waters of my being.

Forgotten lore, gives heed to a lost connection,
now buried beneath concrete security,
plastic convenience, and electronic vanity.

Medicinal relic, an incubating thirst,
old magic calling for blood.