I write poems of evening,
Of day and night.
I write poems as they eat me,
They eat and ruminate my seasons.
They spit sparrows
and feathers fly away from their mouths.
Talking of sealed mouths and blistered feet,
They chew dirt and blood and the very soul itself.
They talk of Shape shifting people and makeshift families,
Disclosing or copying,
They burn division and blindness.
Piercing into the skin and breaking ligaments,they get into you
Rupturing your eardrums and forming the new inner voice.
They digest the broken souls and produce rain drenched wintry maples.
Its endless mechanisms commence the quirky behaviours,
To contemplate the past-made present and present-made future.
Kissing and cuddling they become your slogan and anthem.
Deficient and efficient, you grow and grow,
Until my poem no longer exists in you existence.
A.C
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