Originally published here.
Blue fog, derived from the morning,
Dancing alone in an orchard with the breeze,
In a world torn with a hunt—a slow death for us all,
Then don’t let us go then.
We walk alone into the arterial landscape,
Growing colder and older,
Split into freedom, around us were roads
Hungered and torn to the shaking of whorls
Between fallen sick bones and grazed water,
Our whispers sleepy, our hands drawn
To the lonely streak of an infant mist
Like the blood world of waves,
The chisel of a shadow bygone,
You’ll never see it again.