hilltop

To you,

upon the crest of the hill.

Boring eyes like wood-burrowing gnats,

making oak of my skull and its shifting parts.

Trodden companion strewn over your muddy knoll,

tongue lolled as bleak eyes call for repentance.

Always, that which bleeds can die.

Hot sap drips down the trunk in the daze of southern humidity,

as the rotten core of an ancient tree splits and crumbles.

I think I will hide the knicks of a clumsy knife in my pockets, for now.

2 Kudos

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