Unbroken • Poetry

twenty two

Plant my soul into the ground,
and watch the grass spring forth from my skin.
Does she leap into your arms when you touch her?

His eyelids are soft, floating like petals
on the dewy morning, fluttering under the breeze,
my butterfly, laying under this blanket of clouds,
sleeping in the sun.

The graceful arch of her fingertips, reaching upwards,
gloved in green,
into the sky she reaches,
and the sky comes down to meet her,

and drink
from her rivers, the sky kisses her brow,
when she is too warm and dry, the sky-
it smooths the fever away.
And the day, forever chasing her own tail?

Ouroboros, come and meet me now,
in this effortless self-consumption.
sustain thyself, I dare you--and thank thyself too,
when the sky does not dip his lips to yours,
when there is nobody to wipe your tears away,
day.