Loose end to a tight knot,
the kind you find in your stomach
Fresh catch. In a hurry.
New addiction. Bastard son of an empty dawn.
We are the last.
We are the first.
Dirt the color of my soul
blue, like the canvas behind the stars.
And a burning moon.
Wreathed in calmly raging crimson.
We are the first.
Luna retires, devoured.
Sol rises. Ever vigilant, ever watchful,
but facing the wrong direction.
We are the last.
No bones.
No clothes.
No earthly evidence of our mothers, our fathers, our friends.
A simple, abrupt lonliness.
No fresh or stiff footprints in the powdery bed.
No smoldering decay.
Rolling hills of eternal azure.
On the flipside.
On the wrongside.
We are the first.
We are the last.
Only to die
dry
in the autumn wind.
Sacred, alone.
