words

We light fires from the wells of our bones

Soak blades of our bile in seething coals

Our impulsions the meticulous strokes

That polish blades to mirror our unsure egos

With the grip of tongues trained in usual brawls

We draw swords that gash unarmed souls

And return their blood-kissed tips in the careful

Sheaths of revised grins and crows

But from the same burn-birthing bones

We’ll bury the flames under resolving tombs,

Weave seeds from threads of gold,

Toss them into ashen furrows

Where parched ears long

To drink the flow of words

That sound like home