Poetry

Be laid: 
with your private wounds 
beside me. 
For otherness. 
 
Can you come out from― 
your flesh, and watch 
the ribs, becoming 
infrasonic? 
 
The desiccated dreams, 
inhaling the fire, 
drinking pain. You have 
come full circle. 
 
Can you describe the 
journey of dead souls? 
Without tears? Are you 
going to reject the end? 
 
The ruins are always a beauty.