Friday, October 31, 2008
The Forgotten Ones
Mamma sings to the trees.
She said when the whistle cracks whistled.
Old man trees bend where the moon used to be, and black-rain leaves storm through the darkness.
Nothing but wet.
So many leaves falling limp and smelling. Like oil on the ground. Breath can't poke that blanket. Wood and mud. Settled smoke. Forests rising with too much trying to grow.
We cry silver worm tears, but no one cares.
The first cold chatters bones like we forgot, and Momma can't sing to the trees. She's there. In them. Dancing with the black cloud moon. Forgotten me. And I don't get a tree. Don't want her anyway.
Sing me, trees. Forget the black cloud moon.
Forget my open mouth.
I don't remember what I used to be.
(From Jason: On this Halloween, beware the forgotten ghosts where the paths have overgrown. Look off into the dark fields and forests, but keep to the roads and lamplight. Insanity shrouds the long forgotten. And anger. If one touches you, whispers to you, run. RUN. Do not disappear with them into the brambled shadows.)
HAVE A GREAT DAY, EVERYONE!