“Bloodied Roots”

beneath black boughs
drinking in sun and rain,
we bled ourselves
among the roots.

wind ran through valleys,
catching dead leaves
and dead men – it screamed
through lives lost and lived.

our Gods dined on blood and salt,
freely spilt and freely given –
they sheltered us, hinted at unknowables
and watched while we were cut down.

“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.

“The Shape of the Thought”

It’s all about the shape of the thought
the way it moves and turns and twists
through passages and problems and people
till it reaches a slightly bloodied destination
at the centre of every human being.

The stream catches a few scattered things
dragging them through the muck and silt
coating every particle with the wreckage
of all the things that flowed along before
and drowned in its rushing waters.

It’s worn such a deep diving path
turning flatlands into hills and valleys
worming their way across my brain
and through every fibre of me
until I found a way to stop the flow.