A meaty declension of bones, ravels musty, cloudless farms- the sky in purple musings flushed and florid over-casts and tumbles. A battered blood-bitten sire of the murk, wanders, malfeasant; florescent patterings of milky-lit wings caress long drawn hollows, muddle and muse in carrion beat wood. The timber and ochre of the wooded pasture, is left wrong and pulsing wretched. All colours, sun-lit unworthy- mix with godless charms and hang. My bones are hollowed, by juice-filled beetles- red and green – the colours of the stars, some burn golden. The glassless windows of better born, matching fingertips of grass pushing upwards, feet in the door. Of earth and muted lemon tones, a bony fingernail in half moon shaping- the endless tell of hearty feasting. My makings thin and whitening. The old mixing jug maudlin, meanders into deadened crevasses, a cemetery for guided beast and bird- the plumes now hanker down, deep and down, into the glory of ungoldly souls, the wisps of darkness, shadowy come. Sinking the heart of many into voiceless muses. With battered hands, they tell only truth as I wander. Stumble foul of foot, tripping, the devious branch, with pointy shoes, the tree-child, sinking deep and hungry past my toes. Soundless, godless markings sound out the night-time, with weary hands; moths dance bitterly against a frosty chill, the winter air chases fast- curling ferns extend their vermilion fronds into glassy water. Whose sky is doubled, and echoes voids. The salty velvet makings of dawn, and dusk list their amorous woes upon my dreary shoulders. Pencil-thin, timid and uncaring, a mirrored lucky lunar. The Arcadian mother of temptless skies, watches. Unavoidable, inescapable, inebriated with phosphorous, butter-soft pupils. Watching the man double-cross the ocean, casting its foamy love upon his shins; smiling gladly, ungodly, unjust fervour. Walking, walking, towards reddened berries- an impish fruit of green-borne labour – the hearty harvest. Extending even his mighty temper. Chronicles marked black and lonesome, his heart wrought timid, the fallen- walking, walking, forward greener, into the trees with ashy bark. Abating his muscle, his tongue stops dead- veins are popping, darkly, always, the wooded pathway, unloved and green: is tinted emerald, olive, and jade.
© copyright Eve Redwater 2011