I wouldn’t dare
call myself a poet
or an artist/or a warrior
or a fighter/or a servant/or a stoic
or a fool
I’m just a hermit and a vagabond
going within so I can wander
but these trees work well as bones
sturdy long enough to carry the hour
and all this dirt will eventually receive
the same returns of what once was offered
profit every whisper of groaning breath
pilfer specks of sand from six scratched eyes
protect the black of my lungs/
tongue with glazed amber
Harvest the autumn
red leaves sign caution
blood in the engine
ghosts crawling through dry veins
Spells cast the season
cold snap of reason
heavy pulse turn plasma
gears shifting beneath the plates