I walk over the sound of hate,
lives small in the weed thistle,
crunching in the melting snow,
along with bones breaking
in the dry forest tree,
sap crystallized
under the
bark.
Won't the ivy climb
anyway,
hand placed above the other,
over and over?
I can't look up anymore
without losing my place,
hearing the moans
below me.
really a quite emotive piece...vivid in the bones of trees and the moans below....the ivy though i think holds the key, continuing to grow hand over hand...
ReplyDeleteSounds of hate hearing the dark side under your feet..the ivy will grow when light appears guiding the way..interesting poem..
ReplyDeleteSensual & visceral.....I love it :)
ReplyDelete