Back to the campfire…
It the shadows and glow of the flickering ruddy flames, he looks gaunt, grey, and emaciated as he approaches and sits down. His hair, what remains on his taut pate, is a dirty white and as withered as he — scraggly, sparse and I can see more skin than hair.
(more…)
masks we ride rivers wide
banks staring blank, empty
ancestors begging forgiveness --
what have we done?
slipping night waters
at the edge of blood tides
moon mother moon
what have we done?
careless, that whispered jetty
rock dark, broken shore
still that heart's beating
what have we done?