As we go, dictating our disasters
upon the next limp leaf,
time lapses, lingers (still),
sounding off seconds like blasts
in the announcement of our barren plea.
We are first among those who cradle themselves
as common casualties.
We hear stories of our predecessors occupying gravel beds
of rouge and ruin.
Prioress, you rise to breathe
flesh onto the bones, fur warming the buds,
a subsistence that blossoms our cocoon
of silken, silenced code.
You devour the beds
occupying pieces of us they removed,
refused to excuse,
eroding prescribed purpose
from the tomentosus root.
As we fall, feathering mulched memoirs
upon the next fevered consort,
time beats, trembles (still),
signaling a force in the renouncement
this polluted pace.
Untether the vine,
tumultuous and thorned;
ripened women roaring,
with what they call
a most rotten rebellion.
Wait as the swell matures.
Shaded (still), and shaping.
