BY NATHAN HARRELL
Panic is heaping acid dust
Like faded coalmine canary graveyards
Cartwheeling the breach of pain.
She disappears into shadowed pines
Burying light as she pirouettes.
Wind blows against the curtains
Of her windowed oracle face
Like breath from the reaper.
Gleaning cipher and chapped speech
I two step into vagary.
Storing apologies like winters cold
Hiding from epiphany’s dancing riddles,
The silence is vermillion thunder.
Lost are the licking whispers
Like flames extinguished between fingers.
Biting back the knifes edge
Failing to flee lost scriptures
And forbidden blood-stained relics,
I trip calmly into warmth
Like war-time pale ghost fever.
Unable to grasp the words
Thrown at me as ice,
I flee on phantom feet
Groping, thrashing, like death to
Lay in her cemetery eyes.