petrichor

there's a word for this.
the way the gods slit their wrists.
I know there's a word for this.
the way boulders of blood
saturate parched promised lands.
there's got to be a word for this.
the smell of pain in the distance
spilling from the veins of hell.
I don't know the word for this.
that awful scent after the reign.

grandpa

smoke going back and forth with the wind.
playing tug o' war with the screen door.
memories drawn then drowned out.
the same inkwell my grandfather
dipped his snuff in with gathered hearts.
the smell of muster handed down to me.

a waking thought

hanging on the cusp of sanity
by the trinkets of my soul, pointless.
lost abandonment found in reason.
cue the deranged thoughts unexpected.
floating in a puddle of blood
on my grandfather's oak wood table.
fables devour tales of truth angrily
in search of carbon dioxide plight.
engaged to life leaving peace asunder.
broken promises left unattended
never mend, never mind me.

robbing the craters

sometimes,
the moon,
it looks esculent.
acquired taste.
can't control the urge.

lost art

a crow translating/ phrases of fire lingo/ I take notes of you

pinky promise

hurricane hallways/ Irene doesn't know my girl/ sakura uproot

another flux

the horizon burns. the scent of a new sun. the swirl of cigars smoke. the night's run collapsed.