ask the owl, he saw everything.

This must be what it feels like to wither

To rot and dry
watching your insides shrivel
and your heart grow still
reducing to dust in the storm

It seems fitting
returning to the ash
exposed and yet still solitary
the dirt in my eyesockets
bringing nettles to bloom

The wind
is a silent reprieve
from bone gravel whispers
and breathing
has long since been
a thing of the past

The weight of your soles
and sentiments
erodes my aspirations
to become
so much more than i am

We're long past the potentials, here.

My days are spent
remembering what it was like to live
Without the rivers of yesterday
carved into my veins,
i liked them better dry.

Red always was a favorite color of mine.