Perhaps as a Dying Lamb

thiscausticautumn

I watch the sun fall into a thousand silent shards.
Blinded, I bask where it all comes to pool.
Suddenly everything’s okay.
But they’re building right on top of me, and bearing
gifts made out of my own bones.

I hear the broken waves sing
ever changing feinted songs.
Limpid, I hang on the air
to take it all in;
let it swell and wash over me.
Suddenly, everything’s okay.
They’re building right on top of me,
bearing gifts I swear are my bones.
Burning black holes into everything.
Shape the ashes into my new home.

I’m watching through the holes in my own shadow.

I touch the blade and fall as a thousand burning strands.
I am collected now, in the palm of my own hand.
I sit back and attempt to reassemble;
perhaps as an iron curtain, perhaps as a dying lamb.

They’re filling those black holes with anything.
Shape the ashes into my new home.

I’m watching through the holes in my own shadow.