birth

I want to caress the folds and crevices of these stripped hills, to curl into the cracks of open land and bury myself deep into the ancient soil. 

Diverging paths that hold so many secrets, they beckon to me; alas, I am only so powerful as to gaze in wonder and feel my heart pull taught against the leash. 

In my gut I know this is where I will find true solace. The head and soul speak of a salvation found between the decaying wood.

The world around me is decomposing. True beauty lies within the bone-white houses. Imperfect foundations. All colors blend into the color of dirt. A town that never wakes. 

These small collections of humanity appears as warm graves. God loves the islands of beating hearts. And love creeps into the aging bodies like vines to their brick walls. 

Pockets of woodland trail behind a small blip of life. Copper tinged air. Animals made of rust. I wonder what grew, or what will grow. I relentlessly grasp for words that fill in the gaps of loneliness in these endless fields. There is no hiding when the sky has full view of you. Out here, you hide in churches. 

Out here, you are second to the land. 

It consumes. And consumes. 

No child could live in this town without meeting the devil. In their bedroom, or plastered on the walls. He stares at the ceiling and contemplates his body and hands, if they can provide him a future worth living for, and a present day worth fighting against. 

Tree lines crossing the plains like old scars. 

Could the houses scattered in the distance be the havens of the wounded? More air than breath, another form of life is sought out. 

And for the first time, as light is sucked into the small bulbs on my front porch, I see a star in the empty sky. 

And I think. And think. And cry. And think. And smile. And think. And sob. And think. And laugh. And sigh.