“The Valley Fled”

the valley fled from the thought of us
unimpeded by the wind or rocks,
axes brought to bear against trunks
and arrows notched at old souls,
curious in their repose at new faces
contorted with emotions they couldn’t
understand or know – the rage
of an unenlightened world.

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“Forested Arms”

through bark and bough
bursting, demanding
light speckled leaves
fast-growing saxifrage
garlands gladly given,
hoisted around shoulders
which once bore rifle stocks
blooms keep blood at bay,
pressed into wounds
hereto unnoticed; trees
older than bullets break,
blasting splinters through air
cutting flowers and faces

he stops and drops his gun,
propped against a dying oak,
then walks, bloodstained
boots crunching leaves,
into forested arms.

“Fingertip Tapped”

I tapped you with a fingertip –
ink burned
up through my veins,
following village maps
historical genealogies
and scar tissue,
settling at my shoulders
bursting with black blooms,
petals fell down my spine
composting nerves and muscles
building feathered stems,
slowly, brightly, blackly
bursting inky quills
stolen from aged ravens,
used to dress the faces
of the pretty ugly,
where scars burst into flowers
demanding flesh and meat
instead of sun and soil.