containers

1
the blood of silence
coagulates around my bones,
words never said quietly scar.
there is no echo, no souvenir of desire.
how can you fill so much of me
with nothing?


2
I spread my need thin
spider threads cast in a soundless breeze
the diligence of prayer captured
in a small porcelain bowl
the ground bones of the earth
vitrified to contain silence

house of the dying sun

ghosts flee to the shadows remaining as
light bleeds into noise and I fade into shades
of red, redemption fails and the sand of
prayers shuffles under my feet.
Radiance now cold, framed in monotony
by fingers lacking keys, locks only opening
somewhere else.
wires disassociated from terminals,
electrons trapped, meaning has no escape
meaning there is
no escape

sometimes everything isn't much

fingers fumble on the spine of my heart
embossed letters worn to silence
a book cursed to forget.
the quiet dust of useless words
fall into my hands,
an offering of nothing

a stint of faith

fingers worm their way
into blood warm sand,
roots looking for a ghost
in the skin of the earth.
Already on my knees
I might as well pray.
The sparseness of life,
a modest chaos of
background noise, the
slightest chance to be heard.
the hard edge of hope
pulls from the flesh
a small offering of willful bleeding,
moisture to the desert,
so the ears of a dry god
may bloom in this night.