The earth breathes below the surface.
A fire that pulls in time to the churning belly of the sun.
The lull of the green, and the water a temporary facade;
that covers an army of riotous chariots.
Black smoke breathed cloaked whisperers,
holding flowers that have long since
lost their colour.
Stolen from the graves
of the forgotten.
Faceless but all too familiar,
they sing lullaby after lullaby.
Come you two, come sit in the
ash drawn hop-scotch and learn. Learn
how to peel back the layers of voices that will
follow you like black birds while you play.
While you live. While you cry.
While you weep over your interpretation of love,
and what it should be.
Study each other’s faces.
They will be the familiar threads of colour
that guide you thrugh when the wind blows
and when the night falls.
Gather up your earth, and your bones…