Holding Hands With Mayhem

follow the stream down

through the forest,

walk upon the mush

and wounded soil,

cut slow by blades of rain,

full of fish

that swim in blood,

where hesitation

becomes a prophecy,

where laughter

frightens crows,

and none of us will

be strong enough

to break the ground

that holds us,

but we'll sure as hell

carve a path

through the tombstone-trees,

all waiting,

to be remembered.

all failing,

to touch the sky.