Prehistoric Love
I'm shedding scars in the form of ink,
words stretch like shadows from blood
when pain shines against my stanzas,
and I will dream of a place
where tears become knapsacks,
where thirst becomes peace
when it's full.
and I'm counting rubble
before the quake because
I have plans to build a cave
beneath the sky,
because the scrapes of my hand
have brought it down,
and clouds will drift upon me as ash,
and my pen will paint pictures of the fallout
on the walls of my dwelling,
hidden beneath the crust
of a graveyard not yet buried,
hidden under the bones
of my kin,
the death of whom,
rains down on me
in the form of dust,
currents of the future,
colors of the day,
and I'll pray for lava
to turn these weeds to stone,
and with a brush and an ax
they'll study my petrified scribbles,
my fossilized lungs,
my prehistoric love.