What I can smell is the candlelight shadows
a frame of unsleeping memoirs
into tiny whispers anchored on native banks
right before the wide floods of dawn.
What I can see is moon shadowed graveyards
where springs smell like autumn
housing the dying for free
fallen into freedom
lying there heartcuffed, half - frozen
while omitting the truth of slavery.
What I can touch is the eternal rehearshal
the decisive inspiration of an echo scene
pursuing the blooddrop trail
with the soft vowels of blame
burning the landscape
cursing the flames and leaving the living
intoxicated with darkness and shame.
What I could miss is having no time to breathe
begging for any forgiven dusk
searching for the last tide
like an insane hide-and-seeker
only with dead fingers and nails
devoured by the salty sands of a rocky haven.