Drip.

Just like stained doves

fluttering in hay fields,

I spotted you between clouds

and knew even beautiful things 

could be misplaced. 

So I climbed the single tree

in the vast hay field,

only to find an abandoned

birds nest with it’s eggs

shattered. Twigs intertwined 

between empty shells

that birthed life—

or maybe the shells were

a trap. 

Drip.

Perhaps we were free

before our souls found

homes behind rib cages

and beating hearts.

Only to find that rib 

cages become carcasses—

in due time we all

become dust. In due time

skin becomes earth 

and breath becomes air,

perhaps we were meant

to be recycled. 

Drip.

Somehow we live

in constant streams

of thought, the shame 

is we often exist in 

the ones that taunt us.

The lives we run from

only end up running 

beside us—feeding our

possibilities with longing.

Currents of thoughts

unknown to ourselves,

yet we create them 

despite our desire to do so.

Drip.

oh I didn’t realize it was raining. 

Photo: Pinterest