and diluted the sun beams of
my wrinkled forehead;
the windstorm cleared my
conscious and now i can feel
you how i feel.
parched books bleeding
with soft grey ink and orange
opal tongues are filtering
what i was going to say
what i was going to
say.
lavender cobras are piercing
my spine. my older spine
has rested in your volcanic debree
and our hands crossed paths
before my feet touched
her subtle grounds.
earth child with more opinions
than words.
than poems written
by me.
