Antonimbus

Settle to know
that your thoughts all must flow
in most the fluid of ways
in new the stream
soaked of days.

Lifting, I stand,
Bring hope,
lights of joy,
how holy of holy,
the last black-ness
destroyed.

Hands up for heads!
"And conscience
Wet and dead"

Rinse my whole self
down, dry
to the bone.
Lone willed and wooled,
slow breaks,
underthrown.

Slither away
while I
wither today
and hither you stay
to simply
quiver, we may
while together, we lay
and I wander away
In a thinking spell;
plague of doubt
and dismay.

Not far, but you push.
It is pushed further.
It is pushed with reason.
You say reasons to push.

And the cave grows, and grows,
Only in the black,
Deeper I stray,
Hints riddled and stacked.
All left to sort,
Scratch ridden,
and stoned,
Black blossomed birth,
a wrath lest have unblown.

Tin sound,
An echo so sharp
hearts long and short,
please plead,
hear my harp.

*photo by rachel smith