Here you are, down on your knees again,
your hands clutching at green stems
that are crushed
too easily between your fingertips,
their hollow screams
of yesterdays dreams and empty fields
fall as whispers on the August wind
that winds its hands through your hair.
Looking up, the white stag’s mouth is ripe
a heart between gnashing teeth,
dripping red and swollen in the sun
and you swear he smiles a wolfish grin
before bounding into the underbrush,
into the silence.
And when you scream the forest doesn’t care,
you’re just another dying thing on the ground,
panting in the heat, longing for salvation;
but you never get it.
No, you stay on your knees,
day after day,
touching stems that always break,
too focused on their screams
to feel the wind’s hands clutching at your hair,
pulling chunks out by the root,
trying to get you to look at the stars,
because it’s not daytime anymore,
and all that’s left is the earth between your fingertips.
[NOTE: All of the poetry I post has yet to be peer-edited, so I would LOVE any suggestions or ideas in the comments, but remember, if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.]