shorn, bereft of all rain and earth
like waters under bridges we pass,
our hearts pass – ever searching for the glint
that never was, ever in the sea, dinghies in storm,
bitten, by the vipers of conquest,
eaten by emptiness –
ghosts of our dead selves – winds and sails –
they, who won, who reached – took our salts
and crafted telltale tales of the magic that once
was yours and mine. us, who became hallways
where specters of children
who turned into pictures loom – turned pages,
wept a bit. flickered a bit. killed monsters.
and fell to silence –
for a while and ever.
was there ever a chestnut tree?
did the breeze ever send shivers down its ancient, leafy soul?