From The Store

Sadly coming back to a forgotten life
something waits quietly

a formless voice calls with colors
thoughts that don't belong asking
who the predatorial hands of trees reach for

fog of rotting hands climbing
shaking broken teeth from the leaves

beware the harsh, unyeilding light waiting
it's promises are pools of acid
these promises they make are pools of blood

they surface from the lake to watch

tired cries evaporate
pulled by the temples into arctic indifference
they swim in green prisms

exposed brick withers to dust gripping streams of bursting static

no dignity lays trapped under fallen limbs

if it invades your blood it will hunt down your nerves and spread fires

dread of the fumes now unfastened and rolling
under the bellowing pleas of helpless wind
the trees preside